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Nana's  Daughter, 

A  STORY  OF  PARISIAN  LIFE. 

—BY- 
ALFRED  SIRVEN  AND  HENRI  LEVERDIER, 

With  a  letter  from  the  authors  to  M.  Emile  Zola. 
TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  25th.  FRENCH  EDITION. 


When  M.  Emile  Zola  wrote  "  Nana,"  the  world  thought  that  no  truer 
photograph  of  the  kaleidoscopic  life  which  is  so  truly  and  essentially 
Parisian  could  be  brought  out  by  any  other  author.  It  remained  for 
Alfred  Sirven  and  Henri  Leverdier  to  combine  French  wit,  ingenuity  and 
realistic  word-painting  to  disapprove  this  opinion. 

"  NANA'S  DAUGHTER,"  by  these  gentlemen,  faithfully  portrays,  with 
graphic  lights  and  shadows,  that  zone  of  Parisian  life  from  which  the  beau 
irtande  gathers  all  that  is  chic,  Frenchy  and  worldly. 

The  character  of  Nana' :  daughter,  in  vivid  contrast  to  her  mother, 
that  queen  of  the  demi-monde,  shines  like  a  pure  crystal  amid  the  sordid 
surroundings  and  "demoniacal  plots  which  at  times  almost  engulphed  her, 
and,  irredescent  to  the  last,  remains  untarnished  and  spotless,  a  tribute  to 
virtue. 

The  book  maintains  its  thrilling  interest  to  the  very  end.  The  charac- 
ters are  skillfully  sketched,  and  the  plot  most  interestingly  complicated. 


FOX  SALE  ON  ALL  TRAINS,  AND  BY  ALL  BOOKSELLERS. 

Sent  by  mail  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price. 

LAIRD  &.  LEE,  Publishers, 

CHICAGO. 


A  SPARKLING  AMERICAN  NOVEL 


ER  FATAL  SIN 


BY  MRS.  M.  E.  HOLMES, 
Author  of  "  A  Woman's  Love,"  "  The  Redmount  Tragedy,"  Etc. 

"A  brilliant  story  by  a  brilliant  author." — Tribune. 
WITH   SEVEN  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


COPYRIGHT, 

1886, 

BY  FRED.  C.  LAIRD. 


CHICAGO : 

LAIRD  &  LEE,  PUBLISHERS. 
CORNER  CLARK  AND  ADAMS  STREETS 


POPULAR  NOVELS 

per  gale  by  the  jJeWs  Agsrfi  on  tips  tfuain, 

LARGE  TYPE.      GOOD  PAPER. 
ELEGANTLY  BOUND. 


Delightful  reading  to  while  away  a  few  hours  of  a  weary 
journey. 

A  WOMAN'S  LOVE,        ......    Mrs.  M.  E.  Holmes. 

HER  FATAL  SIN, "  " 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  REDMOUNT,     ....  "  « 

BOUND  BY  A  SPELL, Hugli  Conway. 

FORCED  APART;  or,  EXILED  BY  FATF,        -        -  Morris  Redwing. 

A  GOLDEN  HEART, Bertha  M.  Clay. 

MILDRED TREVANION, The  "Duchess." 

LADY  VALWORTH'S  DIAMONDS,  "  " 

A  HOUSE  PARTY,         -  "Ouida." 

MORGAN'S  HORROR, G.  Manville  Fenn. 

MY  QUEEN, Mrs.  Godfrey. 

GOTHAM  AND  THE  GOTHAMITES,    -        -        •         H.  O.  von  Karlstein. 
CAUGHT  IN  A  CORNER;  or,  A  Terrible  Adventure,     -      G.  W.  Waters. 
NANA'S  DAUGHTER,  A  Story  of  Parisian  Life,     "  -  Alfred  Sirven. 

COURT  ROYAL,    .......  S.  Baring-Gould. 

COWARD  AND  COQUETTE,        ....         Mrs.  Fairman  Mann. 

BRISTLING  WITH  THORNS,          .....         O.  T.  Beard. 

$5,000  REWARD;  or,  Cornered  at  Last,  -        -      Frank  Pinkerton. 

A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE;  or,  The  Detective's  Triumph,          "  " 

DYKE  DARREL,  THE  RAILROAD  DETECTIVE;  or,  The 

Crime  of  the  Midnight  Express,          •        -        •        "  " 

JIM  CUMMINGS;  or,  The  Great  Adams  Express  Robbery,  u  " 

MARKED  FOR  LIFE,        ....... 

The  News  Agent  on  this  train  has  all  the  above  books,  and 
will  be  glad  to  show  them  to  passengers. 


HER  FATAL  SIN. 


THE   PROLOGUE. 


CHAPTER  L 

"  AND  then  'oo  sal  have  a  pink  dress,  like  the  boofical  mammie's. 
Rica  will  dress  her  dolly.  Look  out  of  window,  dolly.  See  the  mans  has 
put  up  the  big,  big  star. " 

The  twilight  dusk  filled  the  room;  the  fire  was  burning  red,  and  glow- 
ing inside  the  tall  nursery  fender.  The  little  figure  by  the  window  was 
dimly  discernible.  Two  chairs  were  pulled  close  up  to  the  fire,  and  two 
heads  were  close  together  whispering. 

"  Mans  is  gone,  dolly.  Paps  er  gone  to  see  his  'ittle  girl  like  Rica. 
Ush  —  ush!  Go  a  peep,  dolly;  time  a  dolly  was  a  bye-bye." 

"Miss  Rica  —  Miss  Rica!"  a  voice  from  the  fireside  called  shrilly; 
"  come  along,  it's  tea-time."  Then,  in  a  lower  tone:  "  She's  that  queer! 
Hark  to  her  talking  to  her  doll  for  all  the  world  like  a  Christian."  Then, 
louder:  "  Miss  Rica !  " 

The  little  figure  slipped  down  from  the  wide  window-ledge  and 
approached  the  fire. 

"  Won't  you  shake  'ands,  Miss  Rica?  "  asked  the  second  person,  sitting 
in  the  big  arm-chair. 

The  fire  suddenly  fell  in,  and  there  was  a  bright  blaze.  It  shone  on 
the  tiny  little  form  standing  between  the  two  chairs,  a  face  with  great  gray 
eyes  that  looked  earnestly  at  the  speaker,  almost  elfish  in  its  fringe  of 
dark  straight  locks.  The  small  arms  were  closed  tight  over  the  precious 
dolly. 

"  It's  Mrs.  Marvel,  Miss  Rica, "  said  the  other  figure.  "  You  remember 
her?  » 

The  little  hand  left  the  dolly,  and  was  placed  in  the  large  work-stained 
one  held  out  to  her. 

"  I  "member,"  said  the  child. 

Mrs.  Marvel  stooped  forward  and  lifted  her  onto  her  knee. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing?  "  she  asked. 

"  Talking  a  dolly, "  said  Rica,  looking  at  the  kind  motherly  face  with 
wide  wondering  eyes. 

Mrs.  Marvel  drew  the  small  form  closer  to  her  and  kissed  her  pretty 
mouth. 

"Bless  her,  she's  a  dear  child!"  she  said  tenderly.  "Ain't  she, 
nurse?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  good  enough,"  replied  nurse,  briskly. 

She  was  filling  a  cosy  brown  teapot  with  boiling  water  from  the  kettle, 
whisking  about  busily,  and,  lastly,  lighting  the  gas. 

"  Now,  Miss  Rica,  come  to  tea,"  she  said,  these  manoeuvres  over. 

5 

2226757 


6  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

Rica  got  off  Mrs.  Marvel's  knee,  and  with  many  soothing  murmurs 
and  much  solemnity  deposited  dolly  in  a  dilapidated  cradle  standing  in  a 
corner  ;  then  she  clambered  up  into  her  high  chair,  and  contemplated  the 
repast  with  no  abatement  of  her  gravity. 

It  was  a  homely  but  plentiful  meal,  and  with  the  bright  fire  blazing 
away,  the  red  baize  blind  carefully  drawn,  the  room  looked  cheerful  and 
cosy.  Nurse  and  Mrs.  Marvel  discussed  tea-cakes  and  gossip  at  the  same 
time,  while  Rica  drank  her  milk-and-water,  and  ate  her  bread  and  butter, 
slowly  and  dreamingly. 

"  Don't  she  never  go  down-stairs  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Marvel  during  a  mo- 
mentary pause  in  nurse's  voluble  talk. 

"  Once  in  a  blue  moon,"  returned  the  other  ;  "  when  some  of  missus's 
grand  friends  ask  to  see  her,  which  ain't  often. " 

"And  she  —  don't  she  come  up  here?  " 

"  Almost  never.  Lor'  bless  you !  folk  have  got  somethink  better  to 
do  nor  to  trouble  their  'eds  about  children.  They  bring  'em  into  the 
world  —  that's  quite  enough  for  them ;  the  little  'uns  may  shift  along  as 
best  they  can ! " 

"  If  she  were  mine,  it  'ud  be  different,"  sighed  Mrs.  Marvel,  tenderly 
contemplating  the  tiny  flower-like  face  opposite.  "  What  does  the 
Almighty  give  us  children  for,  if  it's  not  to  love  'em  ?  " 

"Can't  say,"  returned  nurse  dryly.  "  Yes,  you  may  get  down,"  as 
Rica  pushed  her  plate  and  cup  from  her. 

The  child  put  her  two  hands  together,  shut  her  eyes,  and  said  her 
grace,  nurse  regarding  her  triumphantly  the  while. 

"Yes,1'  she  said,  when  it  was  finished  ;  "  yes,  I  thinks  I've  done  my 
duty  to  the  child,  if  her  mother  don't  do  hern." 

Rica  came  to  her  side  slowly. 

"  Boofical  mammie  is  going  way  —  way  from  Rica,"  she  said  in  her 
low  quiet  voice. 

Nurse  shot  a  telegraphic  look  across  to  Mrs.  Marvel  and  pursed  up 
her  lips. 

"  Little  girls  should  be  seen  and  not  heard,"  she  remarked  senten- 
tiously.  "  Come  here,  Miss  Rica,  and  let  me  untie  your  pinafore  j  it's 
time  you  was  in  bed. " 

The  evening  toilet  completed,  Rica  knelt  down  by  her  nurse's  side, 
and  repeated  a  little  prayer  for  papa,  boofical  mammie,  nursie  and  self. 

Then  the  little  white-robed  figure  disappeared  through  the  door  to  the 
inner  nursery,  and  carefully  closed  it. 

"  She  always  goes  to  bed  by  herself  in  the  dark,"  observed  nurse,  in 
reply  to  Mrs.  Marvel's  look  of  astonishment.  The  two  sat  on  chatting 
till  the  clock  had  ticked  from  half-past  six  to  eight.  It  was  not  often 
nurse  had  a  visitor,  and  she  made  the  best  of  her  time. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  deep  and  confidential  communications,  came 
a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  It's  missus's  maid,  Mdlle.  Rosalie,  I  expect,"  nurse  said  crossly,  and 
she  uttered  a  sharp  ".Come  in. " 

The  door  was  opened,  and  as  the  intruder  was  discovered  to  view, 
nurse  rose  quickly  with  a  hurried  exclamation. 

The  new  comer  advanced  into  the  room. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,  I'm  sure,"  stammered  the  nurse. 

"Don't  trouble,  nurse;  pray  sit  down — your  friend  also.  I  only 
want  to  see  Miss  Ulrica." 


THE   PROLOGUE.  7 

The  voice  was  soft  and  sweet,  the  eyes  stars  of  beauty  ;  the  light  fell 
tenderly  on  the  graceful  figure  draped  in  white  satin,  which  gleamed  and 
shone  at  every  movement  like  pearls. 

It  was  an  apparition  of  loveliness  that  caused  Mrs.  Marvel  to  stand  and 
stare  open-mouthed. 

"Miss  Rica's  gone  to  bed,  ma'am,"  said  nurse,  lighting  a  candle; 
"  she've  been  gone  this  hour  and  a  half." 

"  I  will  be  very  careful  and  not  wake  her,  if  I  can  help  it,"  replied  her 
mistress  with  a  smile,  taking  the  candle. 

At  the  door  of  the  inner  nursery  she  stopped,  her  trailing  garments 
sweeping  the  floor  in  their  richness. 

"  Does — does  she  always  go  to  bed  in  the  dark,  nurse  ?  "  she  asked, 
with  a  catch  in  her  breath. 

"  Always,"  returned  nurse  abruptly. 

Then  the  tall  slender  figure  passed  softly  in,  the  door  was  pushed 
behind  her,  and  the  two  women  left  staring  at  one  another  in  amazement. 

"  How  beautiful  —  she  is  like  a  hangel ! "  whispered  Mrs.  Marvel. 

"  It's  all  outside,"  replied  nurse  bitterly;  "  there  ain't  no  heart  under- 
neath. " 

The  door  closed,  the  mother  crept  quietly  across  the  room,  candle  in 
hand,  to  the  small  cot  beside  the  large  bed. 

She  put  the  light  down  on  a  table  near,  and  bent  over  the  sleeping 
child.  The  clothes  were  tossed  away  from  the  little  form,  the  hands  flung 
out  on  either  side;  Rica  lay  on  her  back,  her  head  nestled  comfortably  on 
the  pillow. 

The  eyelids,  with  their  long  fringe  of  dark  lashes,  were  closed,  but 
something  shone  on  their  darkness,  and  glittered  on  the  little  cheek. 

The  mother  bent  lower.  The  child  was  breathing  quietly,  but  every 
now  and  then  a  slight  sob  betrayed  the  truth  ;  there  were  tears  on  the  tiny 
face. 

The  watcher  slipped  down  beside  the  cot,  heedless  of  her  .rich  dress, 
and  buried  her  face  in  the  bed-clothes. 

"  Poor  little  mite !  God  forgive  me!  How  wicked  I've  been!  My 
poor  little  child !  I  have  lost  all  thought  of  her  in  this  miserable  life." 

The  little  child  moved  restlessly.  Perhaps  the  light  on  her  eyes  half 
awakened  her.  The  heavy  lashes  were  lifted;  she  struggled  up  hi  bed  — 
her  glance  fell  on  the  kneeling  form. 

"  Boofical  mammie,"  she  said  sleepily,  rubbing  her  eyes,  "  come  a  see 
Rica. " 

The  mother  started  up,  and  encircling  the  little  figure,  drew  it  into 
her  arms,  while  she  rained  kisses  on  the  trembling  lips  and  great  wonder- 
ing eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  "  mammie  has  come,  my  own  little  one  —  your 
own  mammie!"  . 

"  Mammie  go  "way,  but  Rica  no  key  —  be  good ;  nursie  say  so. " 

The  voice  was  very  tired,  the  little  head  pillowed  on  the  soft  white 
throat  drooped  drowsily. 

"  God  have  mercy  on  me  for  my  neglect ! "  prayed  the  mother  in- 
wardly as  she  laid  the  child  tenderly  in  the  cot  again.  "I  have  been 
wrong,  but  I  will  atone !  Go  to  sleep,  my  darling ;  mammie  will  come 
again  very  soon.  She  is  not  going  away,  my  pet.  Rica  shall  come  to 
mammie  whenever  she  likes,  and  she  shall  go  out  with  mammie,  too. 
Kiss  me,  my  precious ! " 


8  HER   FATAL   SIN 

The  tired  little  mouth  was  uplifted,  and  as  she  was  laid  back  on  the 
pillow  Riea  was  fast  asleep  again.  Drawing  her  hand  over  her  eyes  to  ease 
the  hot  pain  in  them,  the  mother  rose,  stood  silent  for  many  minutes,  watch- 
ing the  little  form,  then  taking  the  candle,  with  one  lingering  look  and  a 
deep  sigh,  went  slowly  from  the  room. 

"  I  awoke  her  at  first,  nurse,"  she  said  gently  as  she  entered  the  nurs- 
ery ;  "  but  she  is  asleep  again. " 

"Yes,  ma'am;  she's  a  good  child — never  gives  no  trouble  —  is  Miss 
Rica.  As  old-fashioned  as  a  woman,  though  she  is  only  four  year  old,  but 
very  good." 

"  You  have  always  been  so  kind  to  her,  nurse."  The  speaker's  voice 
trembled  a  little.  "  I  should  like  to  think  you  were  with  her  when  I  am 
not  here. " 

She  stooped  to  arrange  her  dress  nervously. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am;  yes,  ma'am,"  returned  nurse,  much  gratified. 

"  You  won't  mind  if  I  come  up  sometimes  to  see  her?  " 

"  Lor',  Mrs.  Messenger,  ma'am,  as  if  I  could  mind!  She's  your  own 
child." 

With  another  faint  smile,  and  a  pleasant  good-night  to  both  the 
women,  Mrs.  Messenger  opened  the  nursery  door  and  passed  out. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  rum  go ! "  observed  nurse  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"  It's  'most  a  year  since  she's  been  up  here.  What  brought  her  up  to-night, 
I  wonder?  " 

"Perhaps  you  wrong  her,"  said  Mrs.  Marvel,  slowly.  "It  looks  a 
good  face,  but  troubled  and  sad  like. " 

"  Well,  we've  all  got  our  share  of  this  world's  troubles,"  was  the  phi- 
losophical reply.  "  And  now,  if  you're  ready,  we'll  go  down-stairs.  I 
ain't  been  out  to-day,  so  I'll  walk  a  little  bit  of  the  way  with  you. " 

She  lowered  the  gas,  and  they  left  the  .room,  and  made  their  way  to 
the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Messenger  progressed  down  the  broad  staircase  slowly — almost 
wearily. 

The  soft  tender  look  in  her  eyes  had  faded  Jaway,  a  hardness  spoilt  the 
tremulous  beauty  of  the  mouth. 

She  stood  for  one  minute  outside  a  large  door;  then,  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
pushed  it  open,  and  entered  the  room. 

Two  men  were  seated  in  opposite  chairs,  both,  apparently,  engrossed 
in  their  newspapers. 

The  one  was  thin,  sharp-faced,  with  clean-shaven  chin  and  side-wisk- 
ers,  very  pale  cold  eyes,  and  a  strong  expression  of  determination  and  dog- 
gedness  dwelling  on  his  features.  The  other  was  a  very  handsome  man, 
whose  eyes,  dark  and  beautiful,  were  filled  with  a  glow  of  unrestrained 
admiration  and  passion  as  the  slender  graceful  form  advanced  towards  him. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  in  silence,  and  sank  listlessly  into  a  chair. 

The  thin  man  shot  a  glance  at  her,  but  did  not  open  his  lips.  From 
the  shelter  of  his  newspaper  he  watched  the  eager  confidential  manner  of 
the  other  carefully. 

Mrs.  Messenger  made  but  languid  response  to  this  conversation,  and,  as 
dinner  was  announced,  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  was  led  down-stairs. 

The  luxurious  meal  progressed  slowly.  The  hostess  leaned  back  care- 
lessly in  her  chair,  toying  with  the  bread  crumbs  beside  her  plate,  but  mak- 
ing no  effort  to  amuse  her  guest,  and  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  long  and 
frequent  glances  he  directed  at  her. 


THE    PROLOGUE.  9 

"It  was  a  pity  you  did  not  stay  longer  last  night,"  he  said,  after  a 
lengthened  ana  tedious  silence.  "  You  would  have  been  amused,  I  think. 
A  man  sang  very  well. " 

"  I  was  tired,"  she  replied,  negligently. 

"  There  were  loud  laments,  and  many  inquiries  for  Mrs.  Messenger," 
he  continued. 

"  Mrs.  Messenger  is  obliged ;  "  she  looked  at  him  for  one  moment,  and 
then  dropped  her  eyes. 

A  voice  broke  in  here  cold  and  harsh : 

"  Are  you  going  to  this  tomfoolery  to-night,  sir  Geoffrey  ?" 

Sir  Geoffrey  Denvil  turned  to  his  host. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  drawlingly.     "  Are  you  ?" 

"  Surely  you  have  known  Mr.  Messenger  long  enough,  Sir  Geoffrey, 
to  know  what  a  futile  question  that  is,"  she  spoke  very  quietly. 

Sir  Geoffrey  did  not  reply. 

"Why  not  speak  the  truth,"  sneered  Mr.  Messenger  suddenly,  "and 
tell  Sir  Geoffrey  why  I  don't  go." 

"  I  doubt  whether  it  would  entertain  Sir  Geoffrey,"  she  replied  slowly. 

"  We  will  put  it  to  the  proof,"  said  her  husband,  an  angry  gleam  in 
his  pale  eyes.  "  I  don't  go  to  these  grand  houses  because  I  am  not  asked 
—  that's  all.  My  wife  is  good  enough  —  I  am  not  ! " 

"  I  think  you  have  the  best  of  us,  Messenger,"  Sir  Geoffrey  remarked 
easily,  stroking  his  mustache  to  hide  the  expression  on  his  face.  "  It  is 
confoundedly  h^Dt  at  these  entertainments." 

Mr.  Messenger  did  not  reply. 

"  What  a  thorough  outsider  the  man  is  !"  was  Sir  Geoffrey's  inward 
thought,  while  he  drank  with  much  approbation  the  costly  wines  provided 
for  his  delectation  by  the  "  outsider. " 

"  Did  I  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Messenger,  after  a  pause,  "  that  I  am  in- 
vited to  Deer  Castle  for  the  autumn?" 

Sir  Geoffrey  looked  up  quickly. 

"  And  you  will  go  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Mr.  Messenger's  eyes  met  Mrs.  Messenger's  for  one  instant. 

"  My  wife  is  mistaken, "  observed  the  host  slowly.  "  She  will  not  go 
to  Deer  Castle  this  autumn,  Sir  Geoffrey." 

The  white  fingers  closed  on  the  bread  crumbs  suddenly. 

"  You  see, "  she  said,  turning  to  her  guest,  "  I  was  mistaken.  It  is 
fortunate,"  laughing  lightly,  "  that  I  have  Mr.  Messenger  always  by  my 
side  to  correct  my  faults." 

Sir  Geoffrey  consulted  his  menu.  Dinner  continued  in  silence.  To 
Mrs.  Messenger  the  meal  was  a  perfect  farce  —  she  ate  nothing.  As  the 
butler  withdrew  she  rose. 

"  I  will  leave  you  to  your  cigars  and  wine,"  she  said,  with  a  faint 
smile. 

Sir  Geoffrey  hurried  to  the  door,  as  she  swept  towards  it. 

Mr.  Messenger  rose  punctiliously,  but  did  not  move  from  the  table,  as 
his  wife  passed  him. 

A  soft  whisper  fell  on  her  ear  as  she  stood  beside  Sir  Geoffrey. 

"  I  will  follow  in  one  moment." 

She  made  no  sign,  but  passed  through  the  doorway,  turned  to  the 
broad  staircase,  and  mounted  it  slowly. 

On  the  first  landing  she  met  her  maid  bearing  her  wraps. 


10  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"  Madam  wishes  her  burnous  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  hurriedly;  "wait  for  me  here,  Rosalie;  I  am  going 
for  one  moment  to  my  room. " 

The  maid  elevated  her  well-defined  brows  as  she  watched  the  slight 
figure  disappear.  She  would  have  elevated  them  still  more  if  she  could 
have  seen  her  languid  mistress  fling  herself  down  beside  a  couch  and  moan 
aloud  as  if  in  pain. 

"  Give  me  strength  —  let  me  live ! "  she  prayed.  "  I  have  been  wicked, 
sinful,  wrong.  I  have  prayed  for  death  so  often  ;  but  oh,  God,  I  repent ! 
Give  me  help  and  strength  in  the  future  for  my  child's  sake !  Let  me 
atone  for  my  neglect ;  let  me  cherish  now  this  treasure. " 

She  half  rose  from  her  knees,  her  hand  pressed  to  her  side. 

Her  face  grew  distorted  and  white. 

She  tottered  to  her  toilet-table,  scattered  with  costly  trifles,  and 
with  one  cold  trembling  hand  opened  a  casket  and  took  out  a  bottle. 

"It  comes  worse  to-night!"  she  murmured.  "He  warned  me  of 
agitation.  More  drops  —  I  must  take  more  drops,  or  this  pain  will  kill 
me!" 

She  stood  for  several  seconds,  then  poured  a  tiny  dose  out  of  the 
bottle  and  swallowed  it. 

She  put  the  glass  down  with  shaking  fingers,  and  waited. 

The  color  came  gradually  into  the  pallid  cheeks ;  she  drew  a  long 
breath,  another,  then  left  the  room. 

The  maid  was  waiting  patiently  for  her  mistress,  leaning  with  char- 
acteristic coquetry  over  the  banisters,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Sir  Geoffrey's 
handsome  face  as  she  heard  the  gentlemen  leave  the  dining-room. 

Mrs.  Messenger  took  her  cloak  from  the  maid,  drew  it  round  her  with 
a  slight  shudder,  and  began  to  descend.  On  the  top  stair  she  stopped 
suddenly. 

"  Give  me  your  latch-key,  Rosalie,"  she  said.  "  After  the  theatricals  I 
am  going  to  Lady  Deere's  ball.  I  shall  be  very  late;  you  need  not  sit 
up." 

"  If  madame  would  allow,  my  seester  is  en  Londres  ce  soir." 

"  And  you  would  like  to  see  her  ?     Certainly,  go  by  all  means." 

"  Merci,  madame." 

In  the  hall  Sir  Geoffrey  was  waiting,  when  Mrs.  Messenger   appeared. 

"  He  is  gone,"  was  his  terse  remark. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  passed  through  the  open  door  to  her 
carriage. 

Sir  Geoffrey  was  about  to  step  in  after  her  when  she  placed  an  oppos- 
ing hand  on  his  arm. 

"  I  am  going  first  for  Mrs.  Coningham  —  you  had  better  take  a  cab, 
Sir  Geoffrey." 

Sir  Geoffrey  stepped  back  at  once  and  doffed  his  hat  as  the  carriage 
rolled  on. 

His  face  was  black  with  a  frown  ;  he  moved  on  a  few  paces  and  lit  his 
cigar,  then  his  eye  caught  a  hansom  slowly  creeping  through  the  gloomy 
square.  He  hailed  it  and  drove  away. 

As  the  cab  disappeared  in  the  distance  a  form  emerged  from  the  dark 
shade  of  a  neighboring  portico  ;  it  stood  for  an  instant  watching  the  re- 
treating vehicle,  then  walked  quickly  back  to  the  house  from  which  the 
carriage  had  just  rolled  away,  opened  the  door  with  a  latch-key,  and  entered 
the  hall 


THE   PROLOGUE.  II 

The  light  of  the  large  lamp  disclosed  Mr.  Messenger's  thin  face  and 
pale  eyes,  and  marked  clearly  the  moodiness  and  gloom  written  on  his 
features. 

He  walked  slowly  through  the  hall,  up  the  staircase,  still  wearing  the 
light  overcoat  he  had  donned  when  he  had  parted  with  Sir  Geoffrey  Denvil. 

He  met  no  one  in  the  passage,  though  from  below  he  caught  the  sound 
of  voices  — the  servants  were  enjoying  their  leisure. 

He  passed  the  drawing-room,  and  halted  before  the  heavy  curtains 
that  veiled  the  entrance  to  his  wife's  boudoir. 

Mr.  Messenger  rarely  entered  that  room.  He  hesitated  now  for  an 
instant,  then  pushed  aside,  the  curtain,  and  turned  the  handle  with  a  click. 

He  turned  up  the  light,  and  then  stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  with  his 
back  to  the  remnant  of  fire  still  burning,  and  contemplated  the  room  with 
a  curious  expression  on  his  face. 

Exactly  opposite  to  him  on  the  wall  hung  two  paintings,  one  repre- 
senting a  man  with  a  clean-shaven  face  and  sharp  cold  eyes. 

It  was  himself,  taken  six  years  ago. 

The  other  picture  was  that  of  a  girl,  young,  fair,  and  lovely. 
Her  great  eyes  gazed  earnestly  into  the  spectator's  like  sapphire  stars ;  her 
mouth  was  parted  with  a  smile,  and  disclosed  teeth,  white,  even,  small  as 
pearls.  There  was  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  beautiful  woman  who  had 
sat  so  listlessly  through  the  long  courses  of  dinner,  but  the  pictured  face 
was  possessed  of  a  happiness,  a  tender  wistfulness,  that  were  altogether 
wanting  in  the  living  one. 

"  How  changed  she  is ! "  he  muttered.  "  That  is  how  she  looked  when 
she  met  her  lover,  curse  him !  Now  her  face  is  like  a  mask,  but  —  I  am  her 
master ;  he  can  never  possess  her  !  I  have  paid  dearly  for  my  triumph ! " 
He  turned  and  walked  to  the  writing-table  with  one  backward  glance  at 
the  lovely  face.  "  But  I  would  give  it  all  again  and  again  if  she  would 
look  like  that  in  return." 

Would  he  ever  efface  the  memory  of  what  she  had  lost  ? 

His  pale  face  flushed. 

He  let  his  eyes  wander  round  the  room. 

Surely  he  had  atoned  ;  had  she  not  luxury,  splendor  unequaled  now, 
where  before  she  had  but  scantiness  and  bare  necessity  ? 

What  talisman  did  she  possess  that  drew  her  away  from  her  costly  life, 
that  brought  the  longing  for  the  days  and  things  that  were  gone  ? 

Suddenly,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  idea,  he  ceased  his  walk  and  ap- 
proached the  writing-table. 

He  opened  the  drawers  of  the  desk  in  succession;  there  was  nothing 
in  any  of  them  that  rewarded  his  search.  In  one,  a  profusion  of  cards  — . 
invitations  from  high  places  for  Mrs.  Messenger  —  Mr.  Messenger  was  not 
included. 

He  shut  it  with  a  savage  click. 

Another  receptacle  was  stocked  with  dainty  writing-paper;  he  had 
sent  it  in  for  her  use  two  days  ago.  The  third  drawer  contained  a  disor- 
dered mass  of  books  and  documents  which  he  recognized  at  once  as  trades- 
men's bills. 

With  an  impatient  "  Pshaw ! "  and  a  half  look  of  contempt  for  him- 
self, Mr.  Messenger  rose  and  was  about  to  leave  the  table,  when  a  small 
cabinet,  standing  behind  the  inkstand,  caught  his  eye.  It  was  of  plain 
wood,  and  looked  strangely  out  of  place  amid  its  gorgeous  surround- 
ings. 


12  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

He  hesitated  for  one  moment,  then  put  his  hand  on  the  rough  knob. 
It  was  locked.  With  one  swift  jerk  he  broke  the  tiny  door,  and  a  packet 
of  letters,  tied  together,  fell  out. 

His  search  was  rewarded.  Very  white  in  the  face,  Mr.  Messenger 
tore  aside  the  string  and  scattered  the  contents  on  the  table. 

About  a  dozen  or  so  of  short  notes.  He  read  them  through  carefully, 
placing  them  one  on  the  other,  as  he  had  found  them. 

They  were  in  a  man's  hand,  written  in  a  lover's  strain.  In  one  of  the 
envelopes  a  withered  flower  was  concealed,  and  attached  to  it  was  a  scrap 
of  paper  bearing  the  inscription,  "  Given  me  by  my  darling  last  night." 

Mr.  Messenger's  fingers  shook  as  he  held  the  dried,  shriveled  memen- 
toes of  the  once  living  glowing  thing;  then,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he 
swept  all  the  letters  into  his  pocket,  replaced  the  cabinet,  and  was  leaving 
the  room  with  hurried  steps  when  the  door  opened,  and  he  came  face  to 
face  with  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Mrs.  Messenger  uttered  a  quick  exclamation  as  she  met  her  husband 
in  the  doorway  of  her  boudoir.  Her  face  was  very  pale;  it  grew  a  shade 
paler  as  she  walked  past  him  into  the  room  and  flung  her  rich  mantle  onto 
the  couch. 

"  Do  you  want  anything?  "  she  said,  seeing  him  stand  silent  and  still. 

"  Why  are  you  come  home  so  early?  "  he  returned,  not  moving;  "  is  it 
possible  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Messenger  can  be  spared?  " 

"  I  have  torn  my  dress,"  she  replied  negligently,  sinking  into  a  chair, 
"and  must  change  it." 

George  Messenger  approached  his  wife  slowly;  he  cast  one  sharp 
glance  at  her. 

"  You  have  injured  your  flounce,  I  see,"  he  said  dryly,  "  not  your  dress. 
Eight  hundred  pounds  thrown  away ! " 

She  made  no  reply. 

"It  would  be  the  same  were  it  eight  thousand  pounds,"  he  continued, 
frowning.  "  Your  extravagance  is  something  fearful,  Beatrix ! " 

She  sighed  wearily,  drew  off  her  long  gloves  with  a  jerk,  and  flung  them 
on  the  table. 

"  I  must  put  a  stop  to  it  somewhere.  I  am  a  rich  man,  but  you  ought 
to  have  married  a  Croesus. " 

"  Can  we  not  defer  this  disquisition  on  wealth  until  the  morning  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Messenger,  coldly. 

"  No,  we  cannot,"  he  observed  shortly.  "  It  is  fortunate  you  are 
returned,  as  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you  ;  there  is  no  opportunity  like 
the  present.  Do  you  know  what  your  dressmaker's  bill  amounts  to  ?  " 

"  I  never  trouble  my  head  about  it ;  it  is  for  you  to  pay,  not  me." 

"  Six  hundred  and  forty-seven  pounds  in  six  months ! "  he  said,  biting 
his  lip  fiercely  at  her  remark.  "  At  this  rate  I  shall  soon  be  in  the  work- 
house. " 

"  What ! "  she  looked  at  him  quietly.  "  Are  there  no  more  people  to 
be  robbed  ?  Is  your  occupation  gone  ?  " 

"  Take  care,  Beatrix ! "  he  replied  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  anger ;  "  take 
care  what  you  say. " 

"  Why  ?    It  is  the  truth,  is  it  not  ?  " 


THE    PROLOGUE.  13 

She  opened  her  fan  and  moved  it  to  and  fro  leisurely  as  she  spoke. 
Mr.  Messenger  took  two  hasty  strides  to  the  door,  then  came  back  again. 

"  I  am  determined,"  he  said,  speaking  very  low  and  quickly  —  "  I  am 
determined  to  come  to  an  understanding  with  you  ;  I  will  no  longer  be 
shown  up  to  the  world  as  your  fool.  I  will  let  these  fine  people  know, 
who  come  cringing  to  your  feet,  that  I  am  master  here,  not  you  —  that  you 
have  nothing  ;  that  you  owe  everything  in  the  world  to  me  ;  that  for  all 
your  grand  airs,  if  I  chose,  to-morrow  you  might  be  a  pauper  ! " 

"  Don't  you  consider  all  this  very  unnecessary?  "  asked  Mrs.  Messen- 
ger slowly. 

"  I  don't  care  if  it  is.  T  am  going  to  speak.  You  shall  hear  plain 
words  for  once.  I'm  getting  tired  of  this  life.  Shunted  off  out  of  sight 
anywhere,  while  my  wife,  gads  about  from  one  place  to  another  ;  fills  my 
house  with  whom  she  likes  —  men  who  are  not  even  civil  to  me,  and  women 
who  ignore  my  very  presence. " 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  still  waving  her  fan  slowly. 

"  I  want  it  all  changed,"  said  Mr.  Messenger  doggedly ;  "  and  what  is 
more,  I  will  have  it,  too !  You've  seen  the  last  of  your  grand  friends  for 
some  time  to  come ;  so  make  your  mind  easy  on  that  point." 

"  Is  that  all?  " 

"  Don't  you  find  it  enough?  "  he  sneered. 

"  Your  mood  is  peculiar  to-night,"  Mrs.  Messenger  said  quietly,  "  and 
must  be  treated  accordingly.  Just  now  you  said  I  should  hear  plain  words ; " 
she  shut  her  fan  deliberately,  and  placed  it  beside  her  gloves.  "  In  return, 
I  will  give  you  some.  I,  too,  am  tired  of  this  life,  Mr.  Messenger.  For 
six  long  years  I  have  borne  my  burden  in  silence  ;  now  I  shall  speak.  The 
moment  has  come  when  I  can  no  longer  support  the  contempt  —  the  loath- 
ing that  fills  my  heart.  I  have  sought  to  lose  the  degradation  of  being 
your  wife  by  mingling  in  the  world.  It  clings  to  me  still  — it  will  cling  to 
me  forever.  Your  deceit  to  me — your  cruelty  to  my  father,  will  live 
always,  though,  God  knows,  I  have  tried  —  earnestly  tried  to  crush  the 
memory  of  it.  Because  I  have  been  silent,  seemed  cold,  indifferent, 
you  think  I  have  no  heart  —  no  feeling.  The  tortures  of  purgatory  cannot 
be  greater  than  those  I  have  endured  since  I  became  your  wife.  It  was  on 
a  par  with  your  mean,  despicable  character  to  rob  my  father  —  yes,  rob," 
she  repeated,  as  he  savagely  interrupted  her,  "  for  I  know  now  the  money, 
instead  of  disappearing,  as  you  told  him,  in  that  disastrous  speculation, 
simply  enriched  your  own  pocket  — to  work  on  a  girl's  generosity  and  love 
to  induce  her  to  marry  you  and  save  her  father.  I  have  only  one  single 
gleam  of  happiness  in  all  my  gloom  —  the  thought  that  he  never  knew  how 
wretched  my  life  was. " 

He  moved  restlessly  to  and  fro,  biting  his  lip ;  but  he  made  no 
reply. 

"  What  crime  had  I  done  ?  "  she  cried  passionately  and  suddenly ; 
"  how  injured  you,  that  you  should  have  acted  as  you  did  ?  Why  did 
you  come  like  a  dark  shadow  to  blot  out  all  joy  and  light  from  my  life  ?  " 

"  Because  I  loved  you,"  he  said,  coming  to  a  stand-still ;  "  loved  you 
a  thousand  times  more  than  that  other  for  whom  you  still  pine  ?  Aye," 
he  added,  with  a  bitter  sneer,  "  I  am  not  blind.  It  is  not  regret  for  your 
father,  nor  distrust  for  me,  that  has  darkened  your  life,  I  know. " 

"  Loved  me ! "  she  repeated  slowly,  a  great  fire  of  contempt  blazing  in 
her  eyes.  "  Loved  me !  Was  there  not  some  better  way  of  winning  me 
than  cruelty  and  deceit  ?  Did  you  think  it  likely  I  should  prove  a  good 


14  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

wife  when  I  learnt  the  truth  —  when  I  knew  the  man  whom  I  had  bound 
myself  to  forever  was  a  liar,  a " 

Her  words  failed  her  ;  she  turned  aside. 

"  Bah !  "  he  said  coolly  ;  "  it  is  rather  late  in  the  day  for  these  qualms 
of  conscience.  For  six  years  you  have  stood  by  and  seen  me  rob  and  lie 
without  putting  out  a  hand  to  protest.  Instead  of  that,  you  have  taken 
the  money  accruing  from  these  violent  measures,  and  spent  it  —  spent  it 
freely.  I  wonder  you  have  not  informed  me  of  your  great  distaste  to  my 
profession  before  this.  I  would  gladly  have  reduced  your  share  in  the  ex- 
penditure. You  must  excuse  me  if  I  dismiss  these  remarks  of  yours  as 
utterly  absurd." 

She  did  not  reply,  but  gathering  her  dress  in  her  hands,  turned  to  the 
door. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  he  demanded  sharply,  moving  from  the 
fireplace. 

"  To  my  room.     Kindly  let  me  pass,"  as  he  stood  before  the  door. 

"  No, "  he  said  huskily,  locking  the  door,  and  putting  the  key  in  his 
pocket.  "It  is  just  beginning  to  get  interesting.  I  thought  I  should 
break  your  calmness  one  of  these  days.  Pray  go  on. " 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  say,"  she  replied  coldly,  returning  to  her 
chair  ;  "  but  if  you  are  anxious  to  speak,  please  be  brief ;  I  shall  be  late 
for  the  ball  as  it  is. " 

"The  ball  will  do  without  you  to-night,"  he  answered.  "I  meant 
what  I  said  a  few  minutes  ago.  You  shall  have  no  more  of  this  sort  of 
thing.  Now,  I  know  you  in  your  true  colors ;  you  shall  taste  life  in  a 
different  way,  or  you  shall  leave  my  house  altogether  to  starve;  go  into 
the  work-house — I  care  not  which!" 

"  I  have  a  more  luxurious  alternative  than  that,"  she  said  distinctly, 
letting  her  great  eyes  meet  his.  "  Sir  Geoffrey  Denvil  has  done  me  the 
honor  this  evening  to  offer  me  his  hearth  and  home  as  a  protection. " 

He  clenched  his  hands. 

"  Well,  why  not?  "  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  Why  not,  as  you  say.     I  cannot  sink  lower  in  my  own  estimation." 

The  sound  of  her  clear  cold  voice  struck  him  as  a  blow. 

"  And  this  from  you ! "  he  gasped  rather  than  spoke;  "  the  mother  of 
my  child!" 

"  Don't  speak  of  her ! "  she  answered  in  low  concentrated  tones.  "  It 
is  contamination  to  breathe  her  name  at  such  a  time  !  " 

"  I'll  take  care  she  does  not  run  any  risks  now  or  in  the  future,"  he 
exclaimed  recklessly.  "  After  your  words  of  to-night  you  are  no  longer 
fit  to  have  charge  of  the  child;  not  that  that  will  trouble  you  much — for  you 
never  see  her." 

"  Are  your  hands  cleaner  than  mine?  "  she  asked,  rising  to  hide  th6 
agitation  on  her  face.  "  Are  you  fit  to  watch  and  guard  over  so  delicate  a 
flower?  Will  not  your  coarse  sordid  nature  soil  her  fair  soul?  She  is  a 
jewel  too  precious  for  you,  or — or  me.  God  help  me!"  she  cried  sud- 
denly, "  for  I  am  a  wretched  woman. " 

"  Perhaps  this  will  help  to  console  you,"  said  the  man,  taking  the 
packet  of  letters  from  his  pocket  and  flinging  them  into  her  lap. 

She  had  sunk  onto  the  couch,  her  white  garments  trailing  around,  her 
face  buried  in  her  hands. 

As  the  letters  touched  her,  her  hands  dropped. 

She  gave  one  start,  then  approached  him  slowly. 


THE   PROLOGUE.  15 

"  So,"  she  said  quickly,  "  you  are  a  spy,  too  ! " 

"  Yes,  I  am.  Take  the  letters;  heal  your  broken  heart  with  their 
balm.  It  is  this  that  has  weighed  you  down  all  these  long  years,  while  I 
believed  in  you  —  trusted  my  honor " 

"Your  honor  !"  she  repeated  scornfully.  "Your  honor!  A  man 
who  lives  on  ill-gotten  gains  —  lies — deceives  —  robs  —  to  talk  of  honor  ! 
When  I  think  of  what  I  have  lost  through  you — what  I  have  made  him 
suffer  through  you — tortured  his  great  honest  heart  through  your  mean 
cruel  nature  —  I  am  not  sane.  I  could  kill  you !  See,"  she  passed  rapidly 
to  the  fire,  knelt  by  the  fender,  and  pushed  the  packet  of  letters  into  the 
expiring  embers — K  see  !  I  destroy  these  last  treasures  of  him  that  I  pos- 
sess; and  as  they  burn,  the  flame  of  my  hate  for  you  grows  stronger  and 
stronger.  It  will  never  die  !" 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  leaned  for  one  moment  against  the  mantel- 
shelf for  support,  then,  seizing  her  wrap,  turned  to  the  door.  "  Please 
give  me  the  key,"  she  said  quietly. 

Mr.  Messenger  stood  motionless;  he  did  not  answer. 

"  The  key,  if  you  please;  I  wish  to  go  to  my  room." 

"  You  can  stay  where  you  are,"  he  said,  sullenly. 

"  Do  you  refuse  to  give  me  the  key  ?  " 

"I  do." 

"  Then  I  shall  ring  the  bell  for  the  servants.  They  must  break  open 
the  door." 

She  moved  to  the  bell,  but  he  darted  forward  and  gripped  her  wrist. 

"  You  don't  give  yourself  airs  for  nothing,"  he  said,  savagely  ;  "  the 
veil  has  dropped  between  us  now  ;  there  is  no  occasion  to  mince  matters. 
I  am  master,  and  I  say  you  shall  remain  here  —  if  needs  be  all  night." 

"  Am  I  a  dog  to  be  treated  like  this  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  at  him  with 
the  loathing  great  in  her  eyes.  "  I  am  not  afraid  !"  as  he  half  lifted  his  hand, 
then  let  it  drop  again.  "  When  a  man  has  a  useful  thing,  he  is  generally 
careful  of  it.  You  will  not  injure  me.  My  face  is  too  valuable.  We  have 
had  enough  of  this  for  to-night,"  she  added  swiftly  ;  "  loose  my  hand  !  " 

He  made  no  reply,  only  tightened  his  hold.  His  face  was  white  even 
to  the  lips.  Their  eyes  met.  Passion,  revenge,  anger  in  his  —  determina- 
tion, contempt,  hatred  in  hers.  So  they  stood  for  many  seconds,  the  only 
sound  in  the  room  the  silvery  even  ticking  of  the  clock,  and  the  loud  quick 
breathing  of  the  man. 

Suddenly  he  released  her  with  a  muttered  oath. 

She  staggered  back.  Her  fan,  gloves,  cloak,  slipped  to  the  floor, 
while  her  hands  tore  at  the  lace  round  her  throat. 

A  ghastly  pallor  settled  on  her  face,  her  eyes  glared.  She  tried  to 
speak  —  no  words  came.  She  reached  blindly  for  a  chair,  but  before  she 
could  touch  it  she  sank  with  a  groan  heavily  to  the  ground. 

Mr.  Messenger  stood  by  silent  during  her  brief  struggle,  and  after  she 
had  fallen  he  made  no  effort  to  help  her. 

He  wiped  his  brow  with  his  handkerchief.  The  violence  of  his  passion 
was  fleeting.  He  felt  cold  and  sick,  and  leaned  against  the  mantel-shelf 
recovering. 

His  wife  lay  motionless.  She  had  never  stirred.  Her  face  was  hid- 
den from  him.  The  clock  ticked  on  monotonously. 

At  last  he  moved.  He  stooped  for  her  scattered  things,  put  them  on 
the  table,  then  knelt  beside  the  prostrate  form,  and  tried  to  turn  it. 

With  hands  trembling  with  a  great  unconscious  fear  he  lifted  the  head, 


1 6  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

fallen  on  the  delicate  throat.  Then,  as  his  gaze  met  the  wide  staring  eyes, 
the  fallen  jaw,  he  started  to  his  feet  with  a  stifled  shriek,  and  staggered  to 
a  chair. 

How  long  he  sat  he  never  knew,  but  his  thoughts  were  a  blank  ;  they 
could  not  stir  beyond  that  awful  thing  lying  before  him. 

Dead!  She  could  not  be  dead  ;  it  was  a  faint ;  it  could  not  be  death. 
She  was  so  young  and  beautiful.  Could  that  quiet  rigid  form  be  the  lovely 
living  being  of  a  few  moments  ago  ?  With  a  sudden  shudder  he  rose  from 
his  chair,  stooped,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her  breast. 

There  was  no  response  ;  it  was  cold,  still  as  marble. 

What  must  he  do  ?  Rouse  the  house  ?  Send  for  aid  ?  It  was  too 
late  for  that.  He  stood  gazing  down  at  the  dead  woman,  rooted  to  the 
spot  by  the  overwhelming  terror  that  had  come  upon  him. 

What  would  be  said  if  they  found  him  alone  in  the  room  with  her 
dead  form  ?  He  must  save  himself,  but  how  ? 

Quick !  let  him  think.  He  passed  one  clammy  hand  over  his  brow, 
then  his  resolve  was  taken.  He  dragged  rather  than  lifted  the  body  to  the 
arm-chair,  and  placed'  the  beautiful  head  turned  from  the  light  as  if  she 
were  sleeping,  then  he  paused 

The  perspiration  was  trickling  down  his  face  ;  he  lifted  one  of  her 
cold  hands ;  it  was  the  one  he  had  grasped  between  his  own  when  her  con- 
tempt had  lashed  his  anger  to  fury. 

There  were  no  marks  on  the  white  skin,  no  signs  of  their  brief  strug- 
gle. He  let  the  fingers  slip  through  his,  the  arms  dropped  heavily  on  the 
satin  skirt,  the  very  shimmer  of  which  sent  a  shudder  through  his  frame. 

Mr.  Messenger  replaced  the  chairs,  flung  his  wife's  cloak  on  the  couch, 
her  gloves  and  fan  on  the  table.  Then  he  stopped,  sent  a  hurried  glance 
axound,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  turned  to  go. 

He  left  the  lamp  burning  high,  searched  his  pocket  for  the  key,  and 
with  one  backward  glance,  slowly,  noiselessly,  unlocked  the  door,  and  then 
listened. 

No  one  was  about ;  a  dim  light  pervaded  the  landing.  He  drew  the 
door  after  him  and  stole  down  the  stairs  through  the  hall. 

He  still  wore  his  light  overcoat.  His  hat  was  on  a  stand  ;  he  put  it 
on,  then  gently  unfastening  the  hall-door,  peered  into  the  gloom.  Not  a 
creature  was  near.  He  stepped  out  and  pulled  the  door  softly  behind 
him. 

It  was  a  dark  night.  A  small  thin  rain  was  falling.  He  stood  for  one 
instant  on  the  steps,  his  heart  beating  loud  and  fiercely,  his  head  swim- 
ming, his  limbs  trembling.  Then  his  eye  caught  the  gleam  of  carriage- 
lamps  creeping  near.  He  steadied  himself  by  a  pillar,  and  descended  to 
the  street. 

The  carriage  progressed  nearer ;  he  knew  it ;  it  was  his  own,  wait- 
ing for  the  mistress  that  would  never  enter  it  again. 

With  a  swift  thought  he  stepped  into  the  road,  smeared  his  boots  with 
the  soft  mud,  then  walked  back  slowly  to  the  house.  The  carriage  had 
just  pulled  up  as  he  arrived. 

The  coachman  recognized  him,  and  touched  his  hat ;  the  footman  was 
seated  on  the  box  also,  holding  the  umbrella  over  his  fellow  servant. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for,  Evans  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Messenger  abruptly. 

"For  missus,  sir;  she've  been  gone  in  most  an  hour, "  returned  the  man. 

"  Ah,  she  will  be  with  you  directly,  I  expect.  A  wet  night,"  said  hie 
master,  as  he  returned  to  mount  the  steps. 


THE   PROLOGUE.  1 7 

"Yes,  sir;  and  cold,  sir,"  replied  the  coachman,  wnose  temper  was 
not  improved  by  the  weather. 

Mr.  Messenger  nodded,  and  went  slowly  up  the  steps.  As  he  reached 
the  door  he  uttered  an  exclamation  loud  enough  for  the  men  to  hear. 

"  How  tiresome !  I  have  forgotten  my  latch-key,"  at  the  same  time 
ringing  the  bell  sharply,  and  knocking  loudly. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  butler. 

"  I  have  forgotten  my  key,"  repeated  Mr.  Messenger  in  answer  to  the 
man's  surprised  look. 

He  never,  by  any  chance,  summoned  a  servant  to  admit  him. 

The  man  stood  undecided,  seeing  the  carriage  waiting. 

"  Shall  I  shut  the  door,  sir?  "  he  asked. 

«  Certainly.     Why  not?  " 

u  I  thought  perhaps  Mrs.  Messenger  was  coming  in,"  explained  the 
butler,  closing  the  door. 

"  Did  you  not  let  her  in  just  now?  Evans  tells  me  he  has  been  waiting 
for  an  hour. " 

The  butler  stared  at  this  remark. 

"  I  ain't  opened  the  door  to  a  soul,  sir,"  he  replied,  decisively. 

Mr.  Messenger  smiled  very  faintly. 

"  Some  one  else  must  have  admitted  her,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  don't 
suppose  your  mistress  has  come  in  through  the  keyhole,  Bailey.  I  am 
going  to  my  study  for  a  few  minutes.  I  have  an  important  letter  to  write. 
Tell  Rosalie  to  ask  Mrs.  Messenger  to  speak  to  me  on  her  way  down." 

He  turned  away,  and  passed  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  with  averted  eyes 
and  a  sick,  cold  heart,  while  the  butler  ran  down  to  the  kitchen. 

Presently  he  returned,  and  knocked  at  the  study  door. 

"  Mademoiselle  have  gone  out,  sir.  Cook  says  she  told  her  Mrs. 
Messenger  gave  her  leave;  and  borrowed  mademoiselle's  latch-key  to  let 
herself  in  with,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  Bailey ;  I  will  go  up  myself. " 

As  the  man  retired  he  rose  hastily,  and  crossed  the  room  to  a  side-table. 

A  case  of  spirits  was  standing  on  it.  He  poured  out  a  glass  of  raw 
brandy,  and  swallowed  it. 

The  fearful  dread  was  creeping  on  him  again.  Must  he  face  that  awful 
still  figure,  meet  the  gaze  of  those  staring  eyes  —  distorted  likeness  of  the 
wondrous  violet  stars  he  knew  so  well  ? 

He  opened  the  door,  and  walked  into  the  halL 

The  butler  was  hovering  outside. 

"  I  waited  to  catch  missus,"  he  said,  "  and  give  her  your  message,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,  Bailey  ;  I  will  give  it  myself. " 

He  ran  quickly  up  the  first  flight ;  then,  as  the  bend  in  the  staircase  hid 
him  from  the  man's  view,  he  stopped  and  clutched  the  banisters  for  assist- 
ance. 

Slowly  with  leaden  feet  he  mounted  the  few  remaining  stairs.  There 
was  the  door.  He  drew  his  breath  in  short  hard  gasps,  as  he  "advanced 
nearer  and  nearer.  He  was  once  more  on  the  grim  threshold  of  death. 

Suddenly  he  gave  a  start.     What  was  that  ? 

A  small  tired  voice  fell  on  his  ears  : 

"  Boofical  mammie.    Rica  come  a  boofical  mammie.     Rica  come " 

At  his  feet  was  a  little  white  figure  nestled  sleepily  in  the  folds  of  the 
curtain.  With  a  terrible  pang  at  his  heart  he  stooped  and  gathered  the 
child  in  his  arms. 


1 8  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  he  cries  harshly,  almost  shaking  her. 

The  little  mouth  puckered  up,  the  tears  melted  in  the  great  violet-g^y 
eyes  ;  so  like,  yet  so  unlike  those  silent  ones  within. 

"  Rica  come  a  mammie,"  the  little  voice  whispered. 

Clutching  the  small  form  still  in  his  arms,  Mr.  Messenger  went  to  the 
top  of  the  staircase. 

«  Bailey ! "  he  called  loudly. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Where  is  the  nurse  ?  I  find  Miss  Ulrica  wandering  in  the  passage. 
Fetch  her  at  once. " 

He  stood  silent  as  the  man  disappeared.  Rica  lay  passive  in  his  arms, 
her  eyes  wide  open  and  fixed  on  his  face,  her  little  hands  clutched  tightly 
together. 

Rapid  footsteps  on  the  stairs  were  soon  heard,  and  nurse  appeared 
very  red  and  cross. 

"  I  never  knew  of  Miss  Rica  to  do  such  a  thing  before,"  she  said  as 
Mr.  Messenger  transferred  his  burden  to  her  arms.  "  I  left  her  sleeping 
soundly.  Naughty  girl  !  I'm  ashamed  of  you." 

"  Mammie  —  boofical  mammie  ! "  sobbed  the  child. 

"  That's  it,"  cried  the  nurse,  turning  to  her  master ;  "  Mrs.  Messenger 
came  up  to-night  and  woke  her  in  her  first  sleep;  it  don't  never  do  children 
good  to  be  'xcited." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  pushed  aside  the  curtain  and  put  his  hand  on 
the  boudoir  door.  Nurse  was  slowly  carrying  her  charge  up  to  the  nursery 
again  when  a  cry  sudden  and  awful  rang  through  the  silence.  She  ran 
down  hastily  and  met  her  master  in  the  doorway  white  and  trembling. 

"  Lor',  sir,  what  is  it?  "  she  exclaimed,  letting  Rica  slip  involuntarily 
from  her  arms  to  the  ground. 

The  child  ran  swiftly  across  the  soft  carpet  to  the  •white-robed  figure 
in  the  chair. 

"  Boofical  mammie  ! "  she  whispered,  patting  the  gleaming  satin  with 
her  white  hand.  "  Rica  come  a  mammie." 

Nurse  took  two  strides  toward  the  chair  and  stooped  down  over  her 
mistress. 

"  Merciful  Heavens,  she's  dead  ! "  she  exclaimed  with  a  great  shudder, 
and  snatching  the  child  to  her  arms  she  turned  to  the  door,  passed  the 
sunken  form  of  her  master  crouched  on  a  chair,  onto  the  stairs,  uttering 
loud  cries  to  rouse  the  household 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  morning  broke  bright  and  sunny  after  the  night  of  horror.  Nurse 
bathed  and  dressed  her  charge  slowly,  frequently  lifting  the  little  figure  on 
her  knee,  and  pressing  it  to  her  heart.  A  great  dread  was  filling  her  that 
she  would  be  separated  from  the  child,  and  she  realized  almost  for  the  first 
time  how  warmly  her  small  charge  had  entwined  herself  in  her  affections. 
Rica  went  through  her  toilet  quietly,  wondering  just  a  tiny  scrap  why 
nursie  kissed  her  so  often,  but  she  nestled  onto  the  motherly  knee  and  was 
deep  in  the  middle  of  a  very  thrilling  story  when  the  door  opened  and 
Rosalie  appeared,  her  face  quite  discolored  with  tears. 
"  Madame  la  bonne,  the  docteurs  wish  la  bas. " 
Nurse  rose  with  a  sigh,  while  Rica  went  at  once  to  the  maid. 


THF.    PRm.OflTTE1. 


1LE.  19 


"  Poor  child ! "  murmured  Rosalie,  stooping  to  let  the  child  play  with 
her  bright  chatelaine.  "  Will  madame  permit  me  to  carry  Miss  Rica?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  like, "  said  nurse,  the  horror  of  the  moment  pushing 
on  one  side  her  aversion  to  the  foreigner;  "  but  she  can  walk.  You  will 
find  her  rather  heavy. " 

Rica,  however,  was  lifted  by  the  kind-hearted  Rosalie  and  borne  down 
the  stairs  to  the  library. 

The  room  was  full  when  they  arrived.  A  gray-haired  man  was  talking 
earnestly  to  a  tall  young  one  with  kind  eyes  but  plain,  earnest  face. 

They  were  the  two  doctors.  The  servants  of  the  household  were  clus- 
tered together  by  the  door. 

There  was  a  little  murmur  and  rustle  as  nurse  appeared. 

The  younger  doctor  came  forward  to  meet  her.  Rosalie  stood  apart, 
still  holding  Rica  in  her  arms.  Nurse  gave  her  account  clearly  and 
decisively. 

"  And  you  say  your  little  charge  had  wandered  down  to  the  boudoir?  " 
asked  the  older  man  after  they  had  heard  all.  "  Was  your  mistress  in  the 
habit  of  having  her  there?" 

"  No,  sir;  I  can't  think  what  came  to  Miss  Rica,  except,  as  I  told  you 
just  now,  her  —  Mrs.  Messenger  came  up-stairs  last  night  to  see  Miss  Rica, 
and  must  have  excited  her." 

Bailey  and  then  the  coachman  were  questioned,  and  the  two  doc- 
tors conferred  together;  the  servants  were  dismissed  except  the  nurse,  and 
a  messenger  was  sent  to  the  study  to  ask  Mr.  Messenger  if  he  would  receive 
the  medical  men. 

He  answered  the  summons  himself,  and  advanced  slowly  into  the  room. 
He  acknowledged  the  doctor's  presence  by  a  slight  bow.  His  face  was 
very  white;  he  still  wore  his  evening  dress;  he  had  paced  hisstudyall  night. 

"  We  are  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  Mrs.  Messenger's  death  was 
caused  by  heart  disease,  accelerated  by  excitement,"  said  the  older  man, 
with  a  touch  of  pity  in  his  voice. 

"  Can  you  give  us  information  on  this  point,  Mr.  Messenger?  "  asked 
the  younger  doctor  in  sharp  clear  tones. 

"  None,"  replied  Mr.  Messenger. 

"  Dr.  Bradbury  has  no  former  knowledge  of  Mrs.  Messenger,  but  I 
am  well  acquainted  with  her  constitution;  she  has  been  consulting  me  for 
the  last  six  months,"  continued  the  young  man. 

Mr.  Messenger  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at  the  speaker. 

"  I  did  not  know  that,"  he  said  slowly.     "  What  —  what  for  ?  " 

"  She  suffered  from  aneurism  of  the  heart,"  replied  the  other,  "  but, 
with  care,  might  have  lived  for  many  years;  that  is  what  makes  me  positive 
that  she  received  some  very  severe  mental  or  bodily  shock  that  caused  her 
death. " 

"  I  know  of  none, "  said  Mr.  Messenger,  after  a  short  pause,  speaking 
mechanically.  "I  left  the  house  last  night  before  she  —  she  did;  she 
appeared  in  good  health  then. " 

"  Where  was  she  going  ?  " 

"  To  some  theatricals  at  Lady  Trillington's,  and  later  in  the  evening 
to  a  ball." 

"  She  must  have  returned  home  to  change  her  dress,  her  maid  sur- 
mises," observed  Dr.  Bradbury,  "  as  the  one  she  wore  was  torn." 

"  Have  you  sent  to  inquire  at  Lady  Trillington's  whether  anything 
happened  there?  "  inquired  the  young  doctor. 


20  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Messenger;  "the  maid's  idea  was  verified.  My 
wife  tore  her  lace  flounce,  and  came  home  to  change  her  dress  for  the  ball. 
That  is  all  they  know." 

"  We  need  detain  you  no  longer,  Mr.  Messenger, "  said  Dr.  Bradbury 
kindly;  "  pray  accept  my  sincerest  sympathy  with  you  in  your  sad  bereave- 
ment. " 

The  younger  man  said  nothing,  but  watched  the  retreating  form  with 
a  curious  expression. 

"  Are  you  not  satisfied?  "  asked  Dr.  Bradbury,  noting  his  colleague's 
face  as  he  drew  on  his  gloves  and  prepared  to  depart. 

"  No,"  replied  the  other  shortly. 

Nurse  stood  respectfully  as  the  gray-haired  doctor  passed  her,  and  as 
the  door  closed  behind  him  she  moved  towards  the  young  one. 

"  What  do  you  think,  sir?  "  she  asked,  hurriedly. 

"I  am  positive  the  poor  lady  received  some  shock  or  suffered  some 
severe  mental  strain  and  excitement,"  he  answered  ;  "  I  am  not  certain,  of 
course,  but  I  have  strong  doubts  of  her  dying  in  that  chair. " 
.    Their  eyes  met ;  nurse  involuntarily  clasped  Rica's  little  hand. 

"  But  as  that  can't  be  proved,  it  is  useless  pressing  it.  Mrs.  Messen- 
ger was  a  very  beautiful  woman,"  he  added  abruptly. 

"  Yes, "  said  the  nurse. 

"  But  what  an  unhappy  look  there  was  in  those  glorious  eyes ! "  His 
own  fell  at  that  moment  on  Rica's  upturned  face.  "  Merciful  Heavens  — 
how  like ! "  he  exclaimed,  lifting  the  child  to  the  table,  "  and  what  is  your 
name  ?" 

"  Rica." 

"  You  are  a  dear  little  mite,"  said  the  doctor  gravely  ;  "  young  to  be 
left  in  this  cruel  world  without  a  mother.  I  should  like  to  pop  you  in  my 
pocket  and  carry  you  away. " 

Rica  contemplated  him  silently  for  two  or  three  minutes,  then  suddenly 
lifted  her  mouth  up  for  a  kiss. 

"  Well,  I  never  ! "  ejaculated  nurse ;  "  I  never  knew  her  to  do  that 
afore  !  She've  took  to  you,  and  no  mistake,  sir." 

"I  am  fond  of  children,"  replied  the  young  man,  stroking  the  little 
brown  head,  and  looking  at  her  with  a  smile  that  transfigured  his  plain 
face ;  "  she  must  come  and  see  me  sometimes. " 

"  May  I  make  so  bold  as  to  ask  you  where  you  live,  sir  ?" 

"  Just  a  few  doors  above  this  ;  my  name  is  Strong,  Guy  Strong.  If 
she  should  want  anything,  send  hi  to  me ;  my  mother  would  like  to  see  the 
little  one,  I  know." 

He  lifted  Rica  down  from  the  table,  patted  her  cheek,  and  turned  to 
the  door.  Nurse  followed  him  slowly  ;  she  dimly  felt  that  with  his  depart- 
ure would  come  some  fresh  blow. 

The  days  that  followed  were  gloomy  and  depressing.  The  servants 
wandered  about  the  house  soft-footed  and  low-voiced,  their  occupation 
gone.  Mr.  Messenger  shut  himself  up  in  his  library,  and,  save  for  his  law- 
yer, saw  no  one. 

The  morning  of  the  funeral  broke  cold,  cheerless,  and  wet.  Rica  sat 
by  the  nursery  fire  crooning  a  lullaby  to  her  doll,  all  unconscious  of  the 
tragedy  that  was  being  acted  in  her  little  life. 

It  was  a  dreary,  wretched  day  to  nurse,  and  all  too  soon  the  fears  that 
had  assailed  her  were  realized. 

That  evening  she  was  summoned  to  the  library,  paid  her  wages,  and 


THE  PROLOGUE.  21 

cursorily  told  to  pack  her  boxes  and  depart  next  day,  as  the  house  would 
be  shut  up.     Her  fellow-servants  were  treated  the  same. 

Nurse  stood  by  the  table  as  her  master  counted  out  the  small  pile  of 
gold  and  silver,  and  pushed  it  across  to  her. 

"  Am  I  really  to  go,  sir?  " 

"  Of  course,"  Mr.  Messenger  returned  quietly.  "  I  leave  England  to- 
morrow night.  The  house  will  be  shut  up  before  I  depart. " 

"And — and  Miss  Rica?  "  faltered  the  woman,  striving  hard  to  over- 
come her  disappointment  and  pain. 

"  She  will  be  well  looked  after.     You  may  go,  Mrs.  Brown." 

The  pale  eyes  met  hers  for  a  minute,  then  fell. 

"Isn't  she  going  with  you,  sir?  Oh,  you  will  never  leave  her  alone 
with  strangers !  She  will  pine  and  die  —  I  know  she  will ! " 

"  I  have  nothing  further  to  say  to  you  ;  you  can  go,  Mrs.  Brown,"  he 
repeated  quietly. 

"  P'rhaps,  sir,  you  don't  know  as  how  Mrs.  Messenger,  the  night  she  — 
she  died,  gave  Miss  Rica  into  my  charge,  sir,  and  begged  me  never  to  leave 
her?  " 

"  Mrs.  Messenger  is  dead,"  said  her  master  coldly,  bending  for  an  in- 
stant over  his  writing,  "  and  I  am  the  proper  person  to  look  after  Miss 
Ulrica.  Must  I  ask  you  again,  Mrs.  Brown,  to  leave  me  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  :  I'm  going." 

And  nurse  went  away  with  quivering  lips. 

She  held  up  till  she  reached  the  nursery,  then  she  sank  on  a  chair  and 
gave  vent  to  her  sorrow  in  tears. 

Early  in  the  morning  nurse  rose  softly,  packed  her  belongings,  casting 
many  tender  glances  at  the  soft  little  face  she  loved  so  well,  and  then  stole 
down-stairs.  Most  of  her  fellow-servants  had  left  the  house,  and  gloom  and 
silence  reigned  oppressively  everywhere. 

On  tiptoe  nurse  progressed  through  the  hall,  let  herself  out  into  the 
street,  and  with  hurried  steps  made  her  way  along  the  square  to  a  large 
house.  She  rang  the  bell  and  asked  to  see  the  doctor. 

The  young  man  came  ouickly  into  the  morning-room  with  concern  on 
his  face. 

"  She  is  not  ill  ?  "  he  said,  as  nurse  rose  respectfully. 

"  No,  sir  ;  but  she's  going  to  be  take*1  from  me." 

Dr.  Strong  looked  grave. 
"  Where  is  she  goin^  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know."  Nurse's  voice  was  trembling.  "  I  came  to  see  you» 
sir,  to  ask  you  if  it  would  be  any  use  if  you  were  to  speak  to  Mr.  Mes- 
senger and  ask  him  to  let  me  stay  with  her.  I  can't  bear  to  leave  my 
precious  lamb  all  alone  with  stranger  ;  she  ain't  used  to  it,  sir.  Besides, 
her  poor  mother's  last  words  to  me  -I  can't  forget  them." 

"  I  will  see  what  I  can  do,  but  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  be  able  to  man- 
age much,"  replied  Dr.  Strong  sJ.owly.  "Did  Mr.  Messenger  say  you 
must  go  to-day  ?  " 

"  This  very  day,  sir ;  he  wouldn't  even  hear  me  when  I  asked  to  stay 
with  Miss  Rica.  What  he's  gourj  to  do  with  her  I  can't  think  ;  he  ain't 
got  no  relations,  and  I  never  h(  rd  of  any  belonging  to  the  poor  lady  ; 
but  my  poor  baby  is  too  little  to  be  thrown  with  strangers.  Oh,  dear 
me  1" 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Brown,  I  will  run  in  and  see  what  I  can  do  some  time 
this  morning ;  unfortunately,  just  at  this  moment.  I  am  summoned  to  a 


22  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

most  important  case,  and  I  cannot  spare  the  time  —  indeed,  I  must  start 
at  once  or  I  shall  be  very  late. " 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  and  God  bless  you  for  your  kindness !  He  is  a  cruel 

hard  man  to "  Nurse  broke  down  and  burst  into  tears.  "  I  beg  your 

pardon,  sir,  but  I  can't  help  myself." 

"  Don't  apologize,  Mrs.  Brown;  I  quite  feel  for  you.  Now  I  must 
go.  I  will  certainly  look  in  as  soon  as  possible. " 

Nurse  took  her  way  home,  feeling  much  comforted. 

As  the  morning  wore  on,  and  Dr.  Strong  did  not  come,  she  grew  un- 
easy again,  and  hope  fled  forever  when  the  nursery  door  was  opened  and 
Mr.  Messenger  appeared,  pale  and  cold-looking. 

"  Put  Miss  Ulrica's  clothes  into  a  box  at  once,"  he  said  quietly,  and 
when  that  is  done,  you  can  go,  Mrs.  Brown. " 

Nurse  hesitated. 

"  If  you  would  only  let  me  stay,  sir,"  she  pleaded. 

"  I  thought  we  settled  that  last  night, "  said  the  master,  looking  quietly 
at  her.  "  Please  do  as  I  ask  you  at  once.  Ulrica,  come  to  me. " 

The  child  clung  to  her  nurse  ;  the  memory  of  his  harsh  words  and 
cruel  white  face  of  one  night  before  came  back  to  her,  and  she  shrank  from 
him. 

"  Temper  —  eh  ?  "  murmured  Mr.  Messenger  as  he  turned  away ; 
well,  that  will  soon  be  cured.  In  half  an  hour,  Mrs.  Brown,  I  shall 
expect  you. " 

Nurse  did  his  bidding  with  her  eyes  blinded  with  tears,  then  sorrow- 
fully and  slowly  put  on  the  child's  outdoor  garments  and  tied  on  her  own 
bonnet. 

"  Go  a  ta-ta  ?  "  asked  Rica. 

Nurse  stooped  and  pressed  a  farewell  kiss  to  the  sweet  baby  mouth. 

"  May  God  bless  and  preserve  you ! "  she  said  with  a  sob  j  then,  lifting 

Rica  in  her  arms,  she  carried  her  down-stairs. 

i  ******* 

True  to  his  word,  about  the  middle  of  the  day  Dr.  Strong  hurried  to 
the  large  house  in  the  square  to  plead  Nurse  Brown's  cause. 

He  knocked  loudly  at  the  door,  which,  after  some  moments,  was 
opened  with  much  unbolting  and  rattling  of  chains. 

"  Can  I  see  Mr.  Messenger  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  old  woman  who  ap- 
peared. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  He's  been  gone  this  half-hour,  sir." 

"  And  nurse  —  Mrs.  Brown  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  her,  sir ;  but  there's  no  one  'ere  but  me  and  my 
'usband.  We're  taking  care  of  the  'ouse  for  a  month  j  Mr.  Messenger 
may  come  back  then. " 

"  Did  he  go  away  alone  ?  "  asked  the  young  man,  a  faint  hope  lingering 
that  the  nurse  might  have  gone  after  all  with  the  child. 

"  Ves,  sir  ;  leastwise,  he  only  'ad  his  little  girl,  sir  —  that's  all. " 

Guy  Strong  pushed  a  shilling  into  the  rough  hand,  and  descended  the 
steps  slowly  as  the  door  was  closed  again,  securely  chained  and  bolted. 

END  OF  PROLOGUE. 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  2J 


CHAPTER  I. 

TT  was  winter- time.  Jack  Frost  had  been  very  ousy,  discarding  for  the 
1  while  his  delicate  touches  and  white  feathery  glistening  adornments, 
but  binding  the  land  in  a  sullen  black  band,  that  chilled  the  marrow  of  the 
rich,  and  brought  misery  and  despair  to  the  poor. 

The  little  village  of  Wakehurst  was  almost  ice-bound,  the  small  ponds 
and  brooks  were  frozen  hard,  and  the  green  turned  into  one  large  slide, 
whereon  the  children  enjoyed  themselves  vastly. 

The  sun  had  refused  to  shine  all  day  ;  everything  was  dull  and  cold  — 
bitterly  cold. 

The  afternoon  was  fast  sinking  into  evening.  All  those  who  could  were 
crouched  round  the  blazing  fires. 

On  the  lake  of  Wakehurst  Park  there  was  a  merry  party.  Chinese 
lanterns  abounded,  sledges  were  scattered  about,  and  in  a  marquee  on  the 
island  was  spread  a  splendid  collation — cakes,  tea,  coffee,  and  —  the 
irony  of  the  thing !  strawberry  and  cream  ices.  Groups  of  brightly-dressed, 
carefully-furred  damsels  skimmed  over  the  smooth  surface,  attended  by 
their  cavaliers  in  goodly  numbers. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight,  and  so  thought  one  solitary  spectator.  Not  much 
to  look  at  —  a  thin,  small  form,  with  poor  little  arras,  protruding  from  the 
sleeves  of  an  old  jacket,  clasped  firmly  around  several  packets  denoting  in 
their  blue-paper  covers  recent  acquaintance  with  the  grocer's  shop;  feet 
clad  in  worn  boots  three  sizes  too  big  for  them,  and  through  which  the 
cruel  stones  penetrated  at  every  step,  and  the  thin  trembling  limbs  only 
half  covered  with  a  shabby  skirt. 

The  face  was  thin  and  gaunt,  with  great  eyes  that  looked  so  hungry,  and 
a  mass  of  straight  dark  hair  hanging  roughly  under  the  tattered  hat. 

How  came  such  an  object  to  be  wandering  on  the  brink  of  the  glittering 
lake,  where  all  was  bright,  and  merry  sounds  of  laughter  mingled  with  the 
soft  delicious  strains  of  music? 

It  was  a  private  park  with  all  kinds  of  traps  to  catch  the  unwary  tres- 
passer. Yet  here  stood  a  most  undeniable  vagrant,  coolly  watching  the 
scene  with  no  intention  of  moving. 

Once  or  twice  as  the  bitter  wind  rustled  through  the  empty  trees,  and 
nipped  her  frozen  limbs,  she  shivered,  but  still  she  stood  on,  unheeded,  un- 
noticed and  lonely. 

Suddenly  in  one  of  his  nearest  circles  to  the  shore  a  boy  caught  sight  of 
this  figure.  He  skated  up  to  the  edge. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked  imperiously.  "  Don't  you  know 
you've  no  right  to  be  in  the  park?  Go  away  at  once ! " 

"I  ain't  doing  no  harm,"  retorted  the  girl  sullenly,  "let  me  alone!" 

"  But  you  must  go,"  reiterated  the  boy;  "  you're  jolly  cheeky  too !  I'll 
tell  my  father,  and  he'll  soon  make  you  move." 

For  answer  the  girl  stooped  deliberately,  picked  up  a  stone  with  her 
chilled  fingers,  and  launched  it  at  her  adversary.  Fortunately  it  missed  its 
aim,  but  none  the  less  infuriated  the  boy. 

"  You  little  vixen  ! "  he  cried,  hurriedly  unfastening  his  acme  skates, 
and  springing  on  the  ground.  "  How  dare  you  do  that !  I'll——" 


34  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

"Tak«  care,  Basil,  or  you  will  injure  me,"  cried  a  laughing  voice. 
"  What's  the  matter  ?"  Then  catching  sight  of  the  small  shrinking  figure  : 
u  What,  strike  a  girl,  Basil  ?" 

"  It's  all  very  well,  Uncle  Guy,  but  she  flung  a  stone  first  —  she  did, 
honor  bright ! " 

The  new  comer  bent  to  the  sullen  face. 

"  Why  did  you  throw  a  stone  ?  Don't  you  know  it  is  very  naughty  ?" 
he  said  kindly. 

"  I  weren't  doing  no  harm  ;  I  climbed  the  railing,"  muttered  the  child, 
"  and  he  came  up  and  sent  me  along.  I  was  only  looking  at  the  people, 
and  was  thinking  they  were  fairies. " 

"  Poor  little  girl !  Come,  Basil,  be  generous  ;  see  how  cold  she  is  —  take 
those  parcels  from  her,  and  then  we  will  give  her  a  nice  cup  of  hot  coffee  to 
warm  her. 

The  boy  hesitated  a  minute,  then  held  out  his  hand  to  the  ragged  maiden. 

She  lifted  her  great  eyes  to  him  for  one  second,  and  then  placed  her  cold 
fingers  in  his. 

"  That's  right.  You  can  leave  her  parcels  in  this  corner,  Basil.  They 
will  be  quite  safe.  Come,  little  girL  " 

He  smiled  kindly  down  at  her,  and  the  waif  trotted  over  the  smooth 
surface,  trying  to  keep  up  with  his  long  steps. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  confused  sounds  from  the  tent  as  they  advanced 
towards  it.  But  as  they  entered  the  warm  well-lighted  interior  the  buzz 
of  conversation  ceased. 

"  Guy ! "  "  Dr.  Strong ! "  "  Good  Heavens !  What  is  it  ?"  were  the  vari- 
ous exclamations. 

The  young  man  laughed,  and  lifted  his  companion  onto  a  chair,  and 
moved  to  the  table  to  get  some  of  the  delicacies  displayed. 

"  Only  a  stray  sparrow,"  he  said  lightly.  "Ladies,  you  spare  so  many 
crumbs  for  your  pretty  red-robbins,  I  thought  you  might  be  generous  also 
to  a  little  brown  bird.  Mother,  this  is  in  your  line,  I  think  ?" 

A  lady  with  a  kind  motherly  face  rose  at  once,  and,  taking  a  piece  of 
cake  from  the  table,  sat  down  beside  the  child,  and  offered  her  a  piece. 

The  little  brown  hand  went  out  and  seized  the  cake,  beginning  to  attack 
h  violently,  eating  as  though  she  had  seen  no  food  before  that  day. 

"  Let  her  have  another  piece,  Guy,"  said  Mrs.  Strong  as  the  last  crumb 
disappeared. 

Dr.  Strong  looked  up  into  the  gray  eyes. 

"  Would  you  like  some  more?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  child. 

"You  should  say,  'yes,  thank  you,'  or  'yes,  if  you  please,'  "  observed  a 
little  girl  who  had  trotted  up  to  the  group. 

She  was  about  the  same  age  as  the  waif,  but  such  a  contrast !  A  dainty 
blue  velvet  coat  trimmed  with  soft  grebe  feathers  reached  to  the  top  of  her 
high  boots;  she  wore  a  round  velvet  cap  on  her  yellow  curls,  her  face  was 
piquante  and  fresh-colored,  but  spoilt  by  a  precocious  look  and  the  unmis- 
takable vanity  that  gleamed  in  her  large  blue  eyes. 

The  other  child  looked  straight  at  her  with  her  great  gray  orbs,  but  said 
nothing. 

Dr.  Strong  moved  away  with  the  empty  cup,  and  his  mother,  all  heedless 
of  the  waif's  unkempt  appearance,  lifted  her  to  her  knee  and  tried  in  a 
coaxing  way  to  make  the  child  talk. 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  2$ 

"  She  is  crying,  Guy,"  she  said  as  her  son  returned;  "  I  wonder  what  ails 
her?  " 

"  Tired,  poor  little  thing!  She  must  get  on  her  way  home;  it  is  nearly 
half-past  six,  and  quite  dark. " 

The  child  suddenly  looked  up. 

"  Half-past  six,"  she  cried,  then  with  a  fresh  burst  of  tears:  "  Oh,  she  will 
be  so  cross,  and  —  and  —  I  shall  get  a  beating  again. " 

Dr.  Strong  picked  her  up  in  his  arms. 

"  Where  do  you  live?  "  he  asked  gently,  "  and  what  is  your  name?  " 

"I  live  with  Mrs.  Coxon,  23  Ivy  Leigh,"  the  child  whispered  between 
her  sobs. 

"  Well,  I  will  take  you  home  and  see  you  don't  get  scolded.  What  is 
your  name?  " 

"  Rica  Messenger. " 

Dr.  Strong  started  as  though  he  had  been  shot,  andl  gazed  long  at  the 
child  as  if  he  doubted  the  truth  of  this  statement.  Then  memory  came 
slowly  back  to  him.  Those  great  gray  stars  —  howjcould  he  have  forgot- 
ten them  ? 

His  mother  watched  his  face  keenly. 

"  Do  you  know  the  child,  Guy  ?"  she  asked. 

He  turned  to  his  mother. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  her  home,"  he  said  quickly ;  "  I  shall  not  be 
long." 

He  strode  away  over  the  ice,  stooped  for  the  various  parcels,  and 
carrying  Rica  lightly  and  easily,  he  passed  into  the  dark  shadows  of  the 
wood. 

A  fire  of  indignation  burned  in  his  heart.  Where  was  the  man  whose 
care  it  should  have  been  to  shield  this  small  treasure  from  harm  ? 

He  glanced  at  the  little  face  pressed  against  his  rough  coat  ;  the  moon 
had  risen  silvery  and  beautiful,  and  it  shone  on  the  small  mouth,  still 
tremulous  with  crying,  on  the  heavy  fringed  eyelids.  She  had  fallen  asleep. 

It  was  a  pity  to  wake  her,  but  as  they  emerged  from  the  park,  he  had 
no  other  alternative.  The  road  diverged,  he  did  not  know  which  turning 
to  take,  so  very  gently  he  roused  the  tired  little  frame. 

She  started  up  in  affright,  and  he  felt  the  wild  beating  of  her  heart 
through  her  thin  garments. 

"  Don't  beat  me,"  she  moaned.  "I'll  never  do  it  again,  Miss  Emma. 
I'll  be  good.  Yes — I'll  be  good.  Don't !"  the  voice  died  away  in  a 
wail. 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  the  little  face. 

"No  one  shall  beat  you,"  he  said  tenderly. 

"  Tell  me  which  way  to  go." 

Rica  looked  up,  and,  realizing  it  was  only  a  dream,  gave  a  great  sigh 
of  relief. 

She  pointed  to  the  road  on  the  right. 

He  passed  several  small  detached  cottages,  and  at  length  came  to  a 
row  of  better  houses  with  strips  of  gardens  in  front. 

Rica  slipped  from  his  arms,  and  led  him  to  the  end  house  of  the  row. 

Scarcely  had  he  knocked  before  the  door  was  opened  roughly,  and  a 
voice  exclaimed  : 

"  Yes,  it's  her  1  You  wicked,  naughty  child ! "  Then,  catching  sight  of 
the  tall  form  standing  by :  "You've  nearly  frightened  us  to  death! 
Where  have  you  been,  Rica  ?  " 


26  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

"  Allow  me  to  explain,"  said  Dr.  Strong,  easily.  "  I  found  this  little 
girl  wandering  about  alone,  very  cold  and  tired.  It  is  just  a  little  late  for 
a  child  like  her  to  be  out. " 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  a  voice  softly.  The  owner  was  a  small,  thin 
woman,  dressed  neatly  in  black,  with  a  widow's  cap  on  her  snowy  hair. 
"  Thank  you  so  much.  We  were  getting  quite  nervous ;  she  has  been  gone 
so  long. " 

"  Well,  I  should  put  her  to  bed  now.  Here  are  her  parcels.  Good- 
night, little  one ! "  he  stooped  to  kiss  the  child. 

Rica  clung  to  him  convulsively,  almost  in  terror. 

"  Come  to  Rica  soon,"  she  cried.     "  Do  come ! " 

"  I  will  come  very,  very  soon." 

"  She  shall  go  to  bed,  sir,  nice  and  warm.  Good-night,  sir  ;  and  thank 
you  again." 

"  Good-night." 

The  door  closed,  the  child  was  dragged  into  an  inner  room ;  one  of  Mrs. 
Coxon's  small  bony  hands  pressed  close  over  her  mouth. 

Another  woman  was  here  standing  by  the  door.  She  had  been  listening 
to  the  recent  conversation. 

"  Who  was  it  mother  ?  "  she  asked,  eagerly. 

The  old  woman  tore  the  tattered  hat  roughly  from  the  child's  iead  and 
threw  it  in  a  corner. 

"  Some  one  from  the  Hall,  I  think,"  she  replied  ;  then,  seating  herself  by 
the  table,  she  placed  Rica,  trembling  and  frightened,  before  her.  "  Now, 
tell  me  the  truth!  Where  have  you  been  ?  Answer  me  at  once,"  with  a 
shake. 

"  To  Mr.  Bill's  for  sugar  and  tea,"  said  Rica,  her  small  hands  clutched 
together. 

"  Well,  and  what  kept  you  so  long  ?  "  continued  Mrs.  Coxon,  her  lips 
drawn  very  thin,  an  angry  gleam  in  her  eye. 

"  Mr.  Bill  was  out,  I  had  to  wait, "said  Rica,  glibly. 

"  That's  a  lie !  I've  sent  to  Mr.  Bill,  and  you  left  the  shop  two  hours  ago. 
Now,  will  you  tell  me  where  you've  been  ?  " 

"  Nowheres, "  the  child  answered  sullenly. 

"  You  won't  tell  me  ?  Then  I  must  make  you.  Emma,  fetch  me  the 
cane !" 

The  child  fell  on  her  knees  with  a  shrill  cry  and  clutched  the  other's 
hand. 

"  Oh,  no — no,  don't  beat  me,  dear  Mrs.  Coxon!  I'll  be  so  good.  I'll 
never  do  it  again  —  only  don't  beat  me!  I'll  tell  you  now.  Oh  Miss  Em- 
ma—  Miss  Emma!"  as  the  pale-faced  young  woman  advanced  with  the 
cane.  Mrs.  Coxon,  heedless  of  the  child's  tears,  turned  up  her  sleeve  and 
took  the  cane  in  hand. 

"  Take  off  your  clothes,"  she  said  quietly. 

Rica's  voice  died  away  in  the  paroxysm  of  tears  and  sobs  that  almost 
choked  her. 

She  struggled  with  her  pitiless  foe,  but  Miss  Emma's  cool  small  hands 
tore  her  thin  clothes  from  her  body,  and  the  cane  fell  in  thick  steady  blows 
until  Mrs.  Coxon,  apparently  satisfied  with  the  severity  of  her  punishment, 
pushed  the  child  sobbing  and  writhing  from  her. 

"  Now  go  to  bed.      I'll  teach  you  to  tell  lies  again.      To  bed,  d'ye 
hear !  " 
^    The  poor  little  hands,  with  great  weals  on  their  frozen  surface,  stooped 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  2? 

for  the  scattered  garments  with  subdued  moans  and  terrified  looks,  just  as  a 
knock  sounded  at  the  door. 

Miss  Emma  stood  before  the  child's  shivering  form,  hiding  it  with  her 
voluminous  draperies  as  her  mother  went  to  answer  the  summons. 

It  was  Guy  Strong. 

"  I  find  I  have  one  of  the  little  girl's  packages  in  my  coat-pocket,"  he 
began,  politely;  but  before  he  could  proceed  farther  Rica  had  slipped  past 
Miss  Emma,  and  with  a  burst  of  sobs  clung  desperately  to  his  knees. 

"  Why,  little  one!"  he  said,  bending  down;  then  as  his  eyes  rested  on 
her  bruised  skin,  the  marks  of  the  cruel  cane  even  across  her  face,  he  turned 
on  Mrs.  Coxon  swiftly.  "  What  have  you  been  doing  to  the  child?  " 

Mrs.  Coxon  made  no  reply,  but  put  out  her  hand  to  push  Rica  into  the 
room,  when  Guy  Strong  picked  the  child  up  in  his  arms,  and  strode  to  the 
light. 

"  So,  this  is  how  you  treat  children ! "  he  said,  turning  to  the  disconcerted 
women,  his  heart  surging  with  anger  and  contempt.  "  Beat  this  poor  mite 
till  she  falls  with  exhaustion  to  the  ground !  Shame  on  you  both  for  your 
cruelty !  Look  at  her  flesh,  bruised —  almost  torn !  Good  God,  and  this 
is  a  Christian  country ! " 

"  I  don't  know  who  you  are,  or  what  right  you  have  to  come  into  the 
house  in  this  way,"  said  Mrs.  Coxon,  white  with  rage.  "  Do  you  know  I 
can  give  you  up  to  the  police  for  doing  it?  I'll  thank  you  to  go  away  at 
once,  or  I'll  call  some  one  to  turn  you  out. " 

Guy  was  patting  and  soothing  the  terrified  child;  he  looked  up  quietly  as 
she  finished. 

"  Outside  there  is  a  policeman;  call  him  in  if  you  like,  or  shall  I  do  so? 
It  will  go  hard  with  you,  Mrs.  Coxon,  if  you  are  called  up  before  Sir 
Thomas  Morne  to  answer  to  this  charge;  remember  I  shall  be  a  witness 
against  you." 

She  shrank  back,  cowed  for  the  minute.  Then,  as  she  saw  him  take  off 
his  thick  coat  and  wrap  it  round  Rica,  she  exclaimed: 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  Take  her  away,"  he  returned  quietly. 

"  She  shall  not  go.  I  will  not  let  her.  She  shall  go  to  no  one  but  her 
father." 

"  I  will  make  it  right  with  Mr.  Messenger.  Have  no  fear  on  that 
score." 

The  woman  suddenly  lost  her  bravado. 

"  Oh,  sir, "  she  cried,  "  you  will  not  make  mischief  with  Mr.  Messenger  ? 
You  will  ruin  us.  Oh,  sir,  please  do  not  harm  us ;  we  are  poor,  and 
indeed  we  love  Rica  ;  it  was  only  a " 

"  Hypocrite ! "  said  Guy  contemptuously.  "  Had  you  pity  for  this  child 
a  moment  ago  ?  No !  As  you  treated  her,  so  I  will  treat  you.  If  you 
have  no  humanity  in  your  bosom,  you  shall  learn  what  justice  can  do." 

"You  shall  not  take  her!"  screamed  the  woman,  now  thoroughly 
enraged,  as  he  turned  to  the  door. 

"  Must  I  call  the  policeman  ?  " 

She  slunk  away. 

"  I  will  send  for  her  clothes  in  the  morning. " 

"  I'll  be  even  with  you  for  this!"  muttered  Mrs.  Coxon. 

"  You  are  at  liberty  to  do  what  you  will,"  he  answered  coldly;  "  but  this 
child  shall  never  be  in  your  care  again  —  be  sure  of  that. " 

He  stepped  into  the  moonlight,  and  pulled  the  door  behind  him. 


28  HER  FATAL   SIN. 

Guy  walked  on  hurriedly  for  some  minutes,  then  stopped  and  looked  at 
his  burden. 

Rica's  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face.  She  put  one  little  hand  out  and 
touched  him. 

"  Rica  loves  you,"  she  said,  with  a  catching  sob  in  her  voice,  "  loves  you 
—you  are  good." 

Dr.  Strong  lost  no  time  in  hunting  up  George  Messenger.  He  discov- 
ered him  with  some  little  difficulty,  and  then  in  plain,  not  to  say  forcible 
terms,  described  the  condition  in  which  he  had  found  the  neglected  child, 
and  the  cruelty  that  had  been  practiced  on  her. 

Rica,  meanwhile,  remained  at  Wakehurst  Park,  under  the  care  of  Guy's 
sister,  Lady  Morne,  where,  amid  the  luxury  and  tenderness  lavished  on  her, 
she  grew  strong  and  happy. 

Both  Dr.  Strong  and  his  mother  begged  to  have  care  of  the  child,  but 
to  these  entreaties  George  Messenger  turned  a  deaf  ear,  and  he  carried 
Rica  away  with  him  to  Paris,  where  he  had  continually  resided  since  the 
time  of  his  wife's  death. 

One  man,  a  Sam  Loudon,  to  whom,  strangely  enough,  Messenger  seemed 
to  turn  as  a  sort  of  a  friend  (for  friendship  with  him  had  always  been  an 
empty  term),  was  perhaps  the  only  soul  who  knew  the  truth,  but  he  kept 
it  to  himself,  and  would  say  nothing  but  that  "  Messenger's  little  girl  was 
the  dearest  and  sweetest  in  the  world ! " 

Rica  was  afraid  of  her  father  ;  she  did  not  love  him,  and  was  glad  to  be 
away  from  his  cold  keen  eye ,  with  her  bonne,  a  kind-hearted  French 
woman ;  and  George  Messenger  troubled  his  head  little  about  his  child. 
She  was  fed,  clothed,  and  taught ;  she  wanted  no  more.  He  cut  off  all 
communication  with  Dr.  Strong  ;  he  wanted  no  one  or  nothing  to  inter- 
fere with  him. 

One  night,  as  Rica  sat  playing  with  her  nurse,  her  father  suddenly  ap- 
peared, and  to  the  bonne's  astonishment,  commanded  her  to  dress  the  child 
hi  her  outdoor  garments,  and  that  quickly. 

They  went  some  way,  then  Mr.  Messenger  stopped  and  hailed  a  fiacre. 
Rica  was  lifted  onto  the  seat,  her  father  stepped  in  after  her,  and  away 
they  rattled  past  the  brilliantly-lit  shops,  the  streets  thronged  with  passen- 
gers, the  cafes  and  theatres  ;  on  till  they  came  to  a  quieter  part  of  the  city, 
where  the  lamps  showed  only  rows  of  houses,  and  the  pavements  were 
deserted. 

At  last,  after  a  long  drive,  the  cab  drew  up  in  a  dingy  court  with  houses 
so  high  and  close  together  that  Rica  could  only  see  a  strip  of  sky  as  she 
stood  on  the  pavement  and  looked  up. 

Her  father  paid  the  man,  then  waited  until  the  vehicle,  with  many  ejacu- 
lations and  extraordinary  cries  from  the  coachman,  had  been  turned 
round  in  safety  and  driven  away ;  then,  taking  Rica's  hand,  he  mounted  a 
few  steps  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

It  was  opened  abruptly  by  a  short  stout  woman  of  the  class  Pauline 
called  contemptuously  "  canaille,"  who,  in  answer  to  Mr.  Messenger's  quick 
low  inquiry,  jerked  her  head  backwards  and  uttered  laconically  : 

"  Au  troisieme!  " 

At  last  they  reached  another  landing,  and,  holding  the  expiring  light  high 
up,  Mr.  Messenger  saw  a  door.  He  flung  the  match  to  the  ground,  trod 
on  the  dying  sparks,  then  knocked  sharply  at  the  door. 

A  voice  in  English  answered:     "  Come  in." 

He  turned  the  handle  and  entered  the  room.     A  man  was  sitting  in  a 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  29 

shabby  arm-chair — a  man  with  unshaven  chin,  ruffled  hair,  and  clothes 
which,  though  they  bore  the  unmistakable  stamp  of  Saville  row  or  Bond 
street,  were  yet  creased  and  thick  with  dirt. 

He  was  half  lying,  his  feet  supported  on  another  chair. 

Despondency  and  vexation  were  on  his  handsome,  haggard  face. 

He  jumped  up  hastily  as  Mr.  Messenger  entered,  and  came  forward  with 
outstretched  hands. 

"  This  is  good  of  you,  Messenger,"  he  said,  quickly  moving  and  speaking, 
despite  his  disheveled  appearance,  with  an  air  of  hauteur  and  tone;  "  very 
good  of  you  to  come  and  see  a  fellow  when  he's  dead  broke.  I  met  Sam 
Loudon  the  other  day,  and  sent  you  a  message  by  him.  I  never  imagined 
you  would  come.  I  know  the  world  well  now. " 

He  spoke  bitterly,  pushing  forward  the  arm-chair  as  he  did  so. 

Mr.  Messenger  drew  off  his  gloves  slowly;  Rica  was  standing  behind 
him,  hidden  by  his  tall  form. 

"  Yes,"  was  all  he  answered;  "  I  got  your  message,  and  I  am  come." 

"  Thanks  again.     Will  you  not  sit  down?  " 

Mr.  Messenger  took  a  chair  from  the  wall,  and  seated  himself,  saying  as 
he  did  so: 

"  Come  here,  Ulrica." 

The  other  started. 

"  What !    Who  is  that?  "  he  asked,  hurriedly. 

Mr.  Messenger  pushed  the  child  towards  him. 

"  Do  you  see  no  resemblance,  Sir  Geoffrey?  "  he  said. 

Sir  Geoffrey  Denvil  gazed  at  the  small  face  before  him  ;  at  the  pale, 
almost  transparent  skin;  the  red  tremulous  lips,  and  lashes  lying  thick  and 
dark  on  the  smooth  cheeks. 

Rica  slowly  lifted  her  eyelids  during  the  scrutiny,  and  met  his  startled 
look  as  he  exclaimed : 

"  Good  God !  how  like " 

Her  father  drew  the  child  back  to  his  knee. 

"  Yes,  Ulrica  is  strangely  like  her  mother,"  he  observed  in  his  quiet, 
cold  way. 

Rica  was  gaining  courage,  now  the  room  was  light  ;  no  horrible  spectres 
in  dark  corners  to  jump  out  and  frighten  her. 

She  looked  round  with  a  reassuring  air.  There  were  no  pretty  orna- 
ments, and  everything  was  crumbled  and  dirty. 

Sir  Geoffrey  watched  the  child  for  two  minutes  in  silence.  He  had  sunk 
back  in  his  chair,  and  was  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand, 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  as  if  speaking  his  thoughts,  "  she  is  like. 
She  will  be  very  beautiful,  too." 

Mr.  Messenger  made  no  reply  to  this. 

Sir  Geoffrey  kept  his  hand  over  his  eyes  for  another  tew  seconds,  then 
hastily  turning  round,  and  pouring  himself  out  a  glass  of  water  from  a 
pewter  jug  on  the  table,  he  spoke  quickly  : 

"  Now  to  business.  I  am  glad  to  meet  you,  Messenger,  for  I  began  to 
think  you  had  deserted  me.  Do  you  know  it  is  a  whole  year  since  you 
have  answered  my  letters  —  a  whole,  long,  terrible  year  1 " 

"  Yes,"  said  George  Messenger. 

He  had  all  those  letters  safe  at  home. 

"  They  were  lost,  I  suppose,  or  never  forwarded  ?  "  continued  the  other. 
"  You  have  been  moving  about  a  good  bit,  they  tell  me.  Have  you  been 
long  in  Paris  ?  " 


30  HER  FATAL   SIN. 

«  Some  time. " 

"  Ah,  and  I  did  not  know  it !  Messenger,  I  must  have  some  money  "  — 
he  moved  restlessly,  and  his  fingers  closed  on  the  frayed  arm  of  the  chair 
—  "  on  the  same  security  as  before. " 

"Yes,"  repeated  George  Messenger. 

"Craven  must  die  soon  —  they  tell  me  he  is  paralyzed  now — and 
Bulkeley  will  come  to  me.  You  know  what  that  means  ?  I  have  been 
writing  and  writing  to  you  about  this  all  the  past  year.  Loudon  will  not 
advance  a  farthing.  I  tried  my  luck  "  — he  laughed  bitterly  — "  my  luck  at 
the  table  last  night,  and  I  am  ruined  —  I  haven't  a  leg  to  stand  on  ;  even 
this  hole  will  be  no  more  my  home  after  the  end  of  the  week. " 

He  paused ;  the  man  before  him  made  no  sign. 

"  So  you  may  imagine  my  relief  when  I  met  young  Loudon,  and  he  prom- 
ised to  give  you  my  message.  It  was  a  glimpse  of  light  in  the  awful 
hopeless  gloom  that  has  hung  over  my  life  these  many  months.  You  are 
the  only  man  I  know  who  will  help  me."  He  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  Great  Heavens!  when  I  think  of  the  hundreds  who  toadied  to  me  when 
I  had  plenty!  —  and  there's  not  one — not  one  who  would  hold  out  a 
finger  to  me  now,  Messenger." 

"  You  have  a  very  poor  belief  in  human  nature,  Sir  Geoffrey, "  said 
Messenger  slowly  and  quietly. 

"  It's  proved  by  bitter  experience,"  replied  Sir  Geoffrey  gloomily  ;  "  but 
come,  it's  no  use  wasting  time  in  regret — time  just  now  is  more  than 
life  almost!  You  will  do  this,  Messenger  —  only  another  five  hundred 
pounds,  small  to  you  but  a  gold-mine  to  me.  Who  knows  —  fate  may  be 
kinder,  my  luck  may  turn.  I  may  win  —  win  enough  to  redeem  the  whole 
and  settle  our  long  account.  Then  rest  assured  your  kindness  will  never 
be  forgotten." 

He  had  risen  in  his  excitement  and  was  pacing  the  room. 

"  You  will  do  this,  Messenger  ?    I  have  paper,  and  ink,  and " 

"No." 

The  word  fell  like  a  thunder-bolt. 

Sir  Geoffrey  stopped  his  hurried  walk,  his  hands  fell  on  the  table,  his 
face,  white,  haggard,  grew  even  paler. 

"  No !"  he  repeated  blankly  as  if  doubting  his  ears  ; "  no !  " 

"No,"  answered  the  other.  "You  have  had  the  last  penny  you  will 
ever  receive  from  my  hands.  I  came  here  to  tell  you  so  myself. " 

Sir  Geoffrey  looked  across  at  him  eagerly. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said  distinctly.  "  Do  you  mean  you  have 
only  come  here  to  push  me  backwards  into  the  mire,  not  to  give  me  a 
helping  hand?" 

« I  do." 

The  two  men's  glances  met ;  the  veil  had  fallen. 

George  Messenger's  eyes  gleamed  with  the  triumph  and  hatred  he  felt. 

The  whole  appearance  of  the  man  was  changed. 

Rica  shrank  back,  vaguely  frightened  at  their  silence. 

"  Take  care  !  "  broke  out  Sir  Geoffrey,  in  hoarse  tones.  "  I  am  not  in  a 
mood  to  be  trifled  with ! " 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  trifling  with  you,"  answered  the  other  fiercely. 
I  have  much  to  say  that  is  not  of  a  trifling  matter.  I  repeat  again,  you 
will  get  no  more  money  out  of  me  —  not  because  your  security  is  false ;  I 
knew  that  when  I  advanced  you  money  four  years  ago.  But  I  let  it  pass ;  it 
served  my  purpose.  Not  because  you  are  a  liar  and  gambler,  but " 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  3! 

«  Well  ?  " 

"  Because  I  hate  you ! "  was  the  answer. 

Sir  Geoffrey  laughed  aloud. 

"  Hate  me ! "  he  cried  contemptuously.  "  Go  on  ;  let  me  hear  all !  But, 
no !  I  see  it  very  plainly  ;  you  are  settling  up  the  old  score.  The  same 
longing  to  be  quits  with  me  lives  yet,  does  it  ?  " 

Rica  saw  the  veins  swell  on  her  father's  brow.  She  was  growing  fright- 
ened, and  crept  away  from  them  into  a  corner. 

Sir  Geoffrey  folded  his  arms  and  surveyed  his  opponent  with  a  sneer  on 
his  worn  handsome  features. 

"Bah!"  he  said  after  a  pause.  "  Who  would  have  credited  you  with 
so  much  weakness  ?  The  man  whom  everybody  thinks  is  made  of  gold  and 
iron  to  bear  within  him  a  secret  patty  grudge  against  one  who,  after  all, 
did  him  no  injury — whose  only  fault  lay  in " 

"  Did  him  no  injury ! "  broke  in  the  other  passionately.  "  You  lying 
villian!  Is  it  no  injury  to  creep  into  a  man's  house  to  try  and  steal 
the  most  precious  jewel  it  contains?  Is  it  no  injury  to  eat  and  drink  of  a 
man's  best,  and  behind  his  back  pour  forth  the  poison  of  a  tempter's 
tongue  ?  Is  it " 

"  You  allude  to  my  friendship  with  Mrs.  Messenger,  I  suppose  ?  "  inter- 
rupted Sir  Geoffrey  blandly,  yet  with  an  ugly  look  round  his  mouth.  u  I 
am  sorry  you  distress  yourself  so  much  about  so  trivial  a  matter.  Our  in- 
timacy was  perfectly  platonic,  I  can  assure  you." 

"Liarl"  hissed  the  other,  now  white  with  his  pent-up  passion.  "I 
know  all  — have  known  it  these  four  long  years.  You  thought  me  blind, 
mad,  a  fool,  perhaps,  but  I  was  none  of  these.  I  knew  while  you  and  the 
world  laughed  in  your  sleeve  at  me,  she  was  a  prize  worth  the  winning ; 
that  while  you  took  my  money  and  turned  your  back  on  me,  you  were 
speaking  openly  to  her.  I  know  more.  I  know  that  the  night  of  her  death 
was  the  night  you  chose  to  suggest  flight  to  her  —  to  drag  her  down  with 
you  to  shame  and  dishonor,  and  after  she  lay  in  her  grave  you  gave  no 
thought  to  her,  but  sauntered  on  through  life  as  you  had  done  before  com- 
ing to  me  —  to  me  —  for  help  to  keep  you  going!  This  has  held  me  silent 
all  these  years.  I  knew  the  end  must  come.  I  have  watched  you  sink 
lower  and  lower,  till  the  moment  came  when  I  could  curse  you,  as  I  do 
now !  It  was  for  this  I  brought  my  child  —  that  she  might  see  and  know 
you  as  the  man  I  hate,  I  curse ! " 

Rica  had  drawn  near  the  bed  and  was  grasping  the  dingy  curtain  ;  she 
understood  nothing  of  their  words,  but  their  white  faces  warned  her  child- 
ish instinct  of  danger,  and  she  grew  terrified. 

Sir  Geoffrey  stood  quite  silent  under  the  torrent  of  low  quick  words  ut- 
tered in  a  voice  so  hoarse  it  would  not  have  been  recognized.  The  curious 
look  round  his  mouth  deepened  ;  it  was  not  pleasant  to  look  at. 

Suddenly,  putting  one  hand  on  the  table,  he  leant  forward  and  looked 
up  into  the  other's  eyes. 

"  You  knew  I  suggested  that  night  for  our  flight  ?  "  he  repeated  slowly. 
"  How  did  you  know  it  ?  It  was  only  breathed  half  an  hour  before  she 
left  the  Countess  of  Trillington's  house.  No  one  could  know  unless — 
unless  she  " —  he  hesitated,  then  said  swiftly,  "  she  told  you  of  it.  Ah,  I 
see  —  I  see  it  plainly  ;  she  told  you,  and  you  killed  her !  " 

The  vehemence  of  the  man  overwhelmed  George  Messenger.  For  one 
instant  he  forgot  himself,  while  the  terrible  touch  of  fear  that  had  come  to 
him  that  awful  night  encompassed  his  heart  once  more. 


32  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

His  face  grew  white,  his  hands  trembled.  It  was  enough  for  the  eager 
eyes  opposite. 

"  That  was  it !  there  is  guilt  in  your  coward  face.  Now,  George  Mes- 
senger, do  your  worst ;  drag  me  down  to  the  gutter  if  you  will,  you  cannot 
drag  me  down  to  your  level.  With  all  my  sins  I  am  not  a  murderer.  You 
bring  your  child  to  curse  me  —  do  you  see"  —  he  crossed  the  room 
swiftly,  and  seized  the  frightened  form  by  the  bed  — "  see  how  I  can  turn 
the  tables !  Look  well  at  that  —  man ! "  he  cried  to  Rica.  "  Remember 
what  I  say :  that  man  killed  y " 

The  words  died  in  his  throat ;  the  two  men  were  locked  in  a  deadly 
struggle. 

Rica  stood  for  one  instant  paralyzed  with  childish  terror,  then  as  the 
sound  of  the  gasping  hoarse  murmurings  came  from  the  white  lips,  as  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  father's  face,  ghastly  and  awful,  as  she  saw  the 
stranger's  hand  still  up  to  her  father's  throat,  the  flood  of  horror  and  fear 
welled  into  her  mind,  and,  not  knowing  what  she  did,  she  beat  her  little 
hands  against  the  door,  uttering  shriek  after  shriek  till  suddenly  the  frail 
barrier  was  broken  down,  and  with  a  cry  of  glad  recognition  Rica  clung 
to  Sam  Loudon's  knees. 

He  pushed  the  child  behind  him,  and  with  two  well-planted  blows 
parted  the  panting  murderous  forms. 

George  Messenger  staggered  to  a  chair,  while  Sir  Geoffrey  stood  wiping 
his  brow  hazily,  his  breath  coming  in  quick,  hurried  gasps. 

Behind  Sam  came  the  woman  of  the  house  excited,  shrilly  voluble, 
gesticulating  wildly. 

Her  entrance  roused  Messenger  ;  as  a  blind  man  he  groped  for  his  hat 
and  turned  for  Rica. 

But  Sam  had  her  carefully  shielded  in  his  arms. 

"  No,"  he  said  decidedly  and  sternly,  "you  don't  have  her;  if  you  can 
bring  your  child  to  such  a  place  and  such  a  scene,  you  ain't  fit  to  have 
charge  of  her.  I  am  going  to  take  her  home." 

George  Messenger  made  no  reply ;  with  a  bent  head  and  curiously  vacant 
expression  he  went  slowly,  almost  painfully,  out  of  the  room. 

Sir  Geoffrey  seized  Sam's  shoulder. 

"  Don't  go,  for  God's  sake !  "  he  implored  wildly  ;  "  or  give  me  some 
money.  This  hag  threatens  to  turn  me  out  into  the  street.  The  room  is 
damaged,  she  says.  I  owe  her  a  month's  rent.  You  know  what  that 
means.  I  shall  have  to  go.  For  Heaven's  sake  give  me  some  money,  if 
only  enough  to  take  me  over  to  England.  Hang  the  consequences  !  Some 
one  must  help  me  there ! " 

Sam  drew  out  his  pocket-book. 

"  There,"  he  said  curtly,  "  get  out  of  Paris  as  soon  as  you  like.  I  came 
to  tell  you  I  have  just  heard  Lord  Craven  is  dead.  The  lawyers  are  look- 
ing for  you.  He  has  left  you  Bulkeley  after  alL  Died  before  he  could 
alter  his  will.  Now  let  me  pass. " 

He  pushed  the  woman  aside,  and  hurried  down  the  stairs  with  Rica  in 
his  arms,  while  the  sound  of  Sir  Geoffrey's  voice,  exultant  and  loud,  came 
to  his  ears. 

As  he  reached  the  street,  Sam  bent  his  head,  and  whispered  a  few  loving 
words  to  his  precious  burden. 

She  made  no  reply,  and  lay  very  still.  As  they  approached  a  lamp-post 
Sam  saw  the  cause.  The  past  horror  had  been  too  much  for  the  child. 
She  had  fainted. 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  33 


CHAPTER   II. 

rolled  on.     The  scene  changed.     A  lovely  summer  afternoon  ; 
1      the  sun  was  hot,  but  its  rays  were  tempered  by  a  gentle  breeze. 

Spa  was  crowded. 

The  band  was  playing ;  children  skipped  about,  pursued  by  shrieking 
voluble  bonnes,  and  apparently  life  in  Spa  was  all  summer  and  sunshine. 

Among  the  idlers  sitting  under  the  shady  trees  were  two  young  men  — 
one  almost  a  boy,  the  other  a  few  years  older,  with  a  very  handsome  face, 
of  the  pure  English  type. 

He  had  his  arm  in  a  sling,  but  was  diligently  assisting  a  crippled  beetle 
with  the  stick  he  held  in  the  sound  hand. 

"  I  shall  be  awfully  sorry  to  leave  you,  Jack, "  said  the  younger  one 
slowly,  as  he  watched  his  companion's  sympathetic  efforts.  "  I  don't  mind 
confessing  I  owe  half  of  my  enjoyment  to  you.  It  was  awfully  jolly  run- 
ning against  you. " 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  strange  coincidence,"  observed  the  other,  still  intent  on 
his  beetle  ;  "  and  yet  I  don't  know  why  one  should  say  that.  The  world 
is  so  small  when  one  comes  to  know  it.  There,"  to  the  insect,  "I  think 
you  are  all  right  now.  But  must  you  go  really,  Basil  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  had  a  letter  from  my  mother  to-day,  entreating  me  to  come 
home  ;  and  you  know  I  have  had  a  jolly  good  holiday  ever  since  oldDrury 
fell  ill,  and  had  to  go  back  to  England. 

Sir  John  Dunworthy  shook  his  head. 
•    "  I  have  to  go  through  another  fortnight's  course  at  the  waters  yet." 

"  But  you  have  promised  to  stay  with  us  at  Wakehurst,  remember," 
Basil  Morne  said  quickly.  "  My  mother  insists  on  it. " 

"  Very  well,"  laughed  the  other  ;  "  when  Lady  Morne  issues  &  command, 
it  must  be  obeyed." 

Basil  made  no  immediate  reply.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  small  cortfge 
approaching  slowly. 

A  bath-chair,  in  which  reclined  a  man  with  gray  ashen  face,  a  shaggy 
beard,  and  eyes  vacant,  cold,  and  ugly. 

A  servant  in  neat  livery  pulled  the  chair,  and  a  girl  walked  beside  it. 

Basil  turned  quickly. 

"  Look,  Jack ! "  he  whispered.  "  Here  she  is  again  —  the  one  I  told  you 
about.  Now,  isn't  she  simply  lovely  ?  " 

Sir  John  Dunworthy  did  not  move,  but  he  gazed  long  at  the  girl  as  she 
walked  slowly  past. 

He  saw  her  eyes  as  they  wandered  listlessly  around — deep,  almost 
violet-gray,  shining  like  stars  in  their  ivory  setting,  for  there  was  not  a 
shade  even  of  color  in  the  fair  skin.  It  was  a  cream-white  from  cheek  to 
the  rounded  throat  that  showed  above  the  neat  collar. 

She  was  quite  unconscious  of  the  long  and  many  looks  of  admiration 
thrown  at  her  ;  her  thoughts  were  evidently  far  away. 

Sir  John  Dunworthy  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  She  is  beautiful !  "  he  said,  his  eyes  lingering  on  the  retreating  figure  ; 
"  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  have  ever  seen ! " 

"  Woman ! "  cried  Basil;  "  why,  she  is  quite  a  girl;  she  must  be  younger 
than  I  am?  "  . 

3 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  35' 

"  She  need  not  be  very  old  to  arrive  at  that  dignity,  certainly.  But  let 
us  stroll  back  to  the  hotel;  there  may  be  some  letters." 

An  unspoken  thought  was  in  his  mind  to  follow  the  girl,  and  feast  his 
eyes  once  more  on  her  loveliness. 

"  There;  do  you  see,"  murmured  Basil,  as  they  sauntered  along.  "  A 
priest  has  met  them !  He  is  speaking  to  them  —  that  is  the  very  first  person 
I  have  seen  with  them.  Hang  it  all;  what  a  shame !  I  wish  I  were  going 
to  stay  longer.  I  would  find  out  who  she  is. " 

"Just  as  well  for  your  peace  of  mind  that  you  are  not,"  returned  Sir 
John,  smiling. 

"  They  are  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Europe  —  I  have  found  out  that  much," 
continued  Basil,  unconsciously  pulling  himself  up  to  his  full  height  as  they 
approached  the  slight  figure  again. 

The  small  group  had  come  to  a  standstill  in  the  center  of  the  avenue. 

As  Basil  had  noticed,  a  priest  was  with  them,  bending  his  tall  black- 
coated  form  to  speak  to  the  invalid  in  the  chair. 

The  girl  was  standing  silent,  one  hand  grasping  the  chair  handle,  and 
she  let  her  eyes  wander  negligently  over  the  crowds  of  fashionably-attired 
people.  | 

She  looked  up  as  Sir  John  Dunworthy  and  Basil  Morne  walked  slowly 
past.  There  was  nothing  uncommon  in  their  appearance  beyond  the  black 
silk  sling  across  the  light  coat;  dozens  of  men  of  the  like  stamp  were 
scattered  about ;  and  as  they  disappeared  in  the  moving  throng,  she  turned 
to  answer  a  question,  without  another  thought  to  them. 

"  I  am  fortunate  in  finding  you,"  said  the  priest,  softly. 

"Yes,"  returned  the  girl,  listlessly. 

"  I  brought  you  the  books  I  promised." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  quietly,  almost  coldly;  a  slight  pause,  and  then| 
she  added:  "  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  here,  Father  Lawrence." 

"  No?  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  to  remain  in  Bruges  for  some  time,"  she  continued, 
listlessly,  her  attention  riveted  on  two  small  specimens  of  humanity  fighting 
for  a  balL  " 

"I  —  I  had  to  come  to  Spa,"  Father  Lawrence  said  with  momentary 
hesitation. 

"Oh,  yes,"  was  all  she  remarked;  she  was  still  intent  on  the  infantile 
struggle. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing?  "  he  asked  after  awhile. 

"  Doing  ?     Nothing. " 

"  This  is  a  pretty  place,"  waving  his  hand  round  ;  "  you  ought  to  find 
life  pleasant  and  easy  here. " 

"Yes." 

The  chair  was  moving  on  through  the  crowd ;  the  long-coated  figure 
was  pacing  by  her  side. 

"  I  suppose  your  father  will  remain  for  some  time  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say,"  the  girl  replied,  half  petulantly;  "you  know  what  he 
is ! "  She  sighed  a  little  as  she  spoke. 

The  priest  cast  a  scrutinizing  glance  at  her. 

"You  are  looking  pale,  Miss  Messenger." 

"It  is  the  heat." 

"  You  are  not  troubled  ?  "  he  asked,  softly. 

The  girl  turned  and  met  his  gaze  frankly. 

"  What  should  trouble  me,  Father  Lawrence  ?  "  she  said  quickly. 


36  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

His  answer  was  lost,  for  at  this  moment  the  servant  touched  his  hand. 

"  What  is  it,  Sims  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  turn,  miss  ?  " 

"  Ask  your  master. " 

The  man  bent  down  and  whispered  his  question  to  the  invalid,  who  nodded 
vacantly,  and  the  chair  was  wheeled  round  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  town. 

The  priest  chatted  on  suavely  on  many  subjects,  but  he  only  received 
monosyllabic  replies  till  they  reached  the  archway  of  the  hotel. 

"  I  may  come  in  this  evening?  "  he  asked,  as  Miss  Messenger  put  her 
small  ungloved  hand  for  one  moment  into  his. 

"  As  you  please ;  but  you  will  find  it  much  pleasanter  out  of  doors." 

"I  thought  your  father  might  like  some  backgammon,"  he  said  quietly, 
replacing  the  soft  felt  hat,  and  ignoring  the  indifference  in  her  tone  ;  "  it 
sometimes  interests  him. " 

"  Come,  then,  certainly,"  she  replied,  more  gently ;  and  with  a  slight 
bow  she  moved  in  through  the  lower  old-fashioned  door,  and  mounted  the 

crooked  staircase  slowly. 
********** 

Eight  years  and  a  half  had  passed  over  Ulrica  Messenger's  head  since  the 
night  she  had  been  carried  in  Sam  Loudon's  arms  from  the  room  in  the 
dingy  Rue  St.  Sauveur  back  to  Pauline  and  her  little  white  cot. 

Years  of  incessant  moving  about  with  her  hapless  father,  for  George 
Messenger  was  a  wreck  in  mind  and  body. 

Immediately  after  that  terrible  interview  and  struggle  with  Sir  Geoffrey 
Denvil  he  fell  ill,  and  became  attacked  by  a  species  of  melancholia  which 
at  last  settled  into  softening  of  the  brain. 

The  Loudons,  father  and  son,  took  upon  themselves  the  responsibility 
of  the  poor  invalid,  and  it  was  under  their  kind-hearted  guidance  that 
Ulrica's  first  five  years  of  comparative  orphanage  were  passed. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  George  Messenger  seemed  to  recover  slightly  ; 
that  is  to  say,  he  recognized  well-known  faces,  and  proved  that  his  will 
was  not  quite  dead  by  insisting  with  a  strange  unaccountable  restlessness 
to  be  perpetually  moved  about  from  place  to  place  ;  he  was  never  satisfied 
unless  continually  changing  from  one  spot  to  another. 

The  Loudons  would  have  kept  Ulrica  under  their  charge  at  this  time, 
but  with  a  cunning  glimmer  of  remembrance,  her  father  refused  to  let  her 
leave  his  sight  for  a  day. 

The  accusation  Sir  Geoffrey  Denvil  had  suddenly  hurled  at  him  rose 
with  terrible  prominence 'in  his  shattered  mind,  and  he  clung  to  yirica 
with  a  madman's  fear  that  in  some  way  retribution  would  overtake  him 
through  her.  So  began  a  strange  life  for  Ulrica. 

There  was  no  love  in  the  child's  heart  for  her  father  ;  all  the  affection 
she  possessed  she  lavished  on  Sam  Loudon. 

The  memory  of  the  night  that  haunted  George  Messenger  so  fearfully 
had  passed  from  her  mind  altogether. 

Her  childhood  had  held  so  many  and  varied  scenes  that  they  melted 
into  a  mist  of  fancies  and  dreams. 

Thus  she  held  no  clew  to  the  strange  eagerness  her  father  always  evinced 
to  keep  her  at  his  side,  and  as  his  claims  upon  her  duty  increased,  she 
unconsciously  shrank  more  and  more  from  him. 

Sam  Loudon,  as  self-constituted  guardian  to  Ulrica,  had  insisted,  when 
she  was  taken  from  him,  on  a  governess  being  procured,  and  her  education 
being  carefully  attended  to 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  37 

Language  came  easy  to  the  small  pupil ;  the  nurses  she  had  had  before  the 
governess  came  had  been  of  the  most  varied  nationality.  She  could  con- 
verse fluently  in  French,  leaving  her.instructress  far  behind  her  in  Italian, 
German,  and  a  little  Dutch. 

She  was  surrounded  by  everything  that  money  could  give  —  ill  or  well 
gotten,  the  fruits  of  George  Messenger's  life  were  heaped  in  abundance. 

A  very  mantle  of  luxury  was  spread  before  her,  yet  the  splendor  of  her 
father's  wealth  could  not  cover  the  emptiness  and  loneliness  of  her  lot. 

Sam  Loudon  had  married,  and  had  now  a  flaxen-haired  blossom  of  his 
own  to  cherish,  but  he  never  forgot  the  great  gray  eyes  of  his  early  favor- 
ite, and  as  often  as  a  favorable  opportunity  occurred,  he  would  join  the 
travelers  and  spend  a  day  with  the  beautiful  sweet -faced  girl  he  called  his 
ward. 

These  visits  were  the  one  bright  spot  ori  Ulrica's  dark  lonely  horizon  ; 
she  revelled  in  Sam's  genial  warmth  ;  she  lavished  on  him  all  the  treasure 
of  her  stored  love,  giving  him  glimpses  of  a  great,  glorious, 'golden  nature 
that  all  the  narrow  limits  of  her  cheerless  life  could  not  ruin. 

Ulrica  let  her  maid  dress  her  for  the  solitary  dinner  with  her  father  in 
silence.  She  was  always  grave  —  preternaturally  so  for  one  so  young  ;  but 
life  held  few  things  other  than  gloomy  for  her. 

The  germ  of  girlish  gaiety  lived  in  her  heart,  but  it  was  crushed  by  the 
sombre  gloom  of  her  existence. 

The  dinner  passed  wearily,  and  Ulrica  rose  almost  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
when  the  door  opened  and  Father  Lawrence  was  announced. 

Ever  and  anon  as  he  rattled  the  dice,  and  listened  to  the  feeble  flow  of 
talk  from  the  invalid,  the  priest  would  gaze  at  the  graceful  figure  sitting 
by  the  window,  and  liken  her  to  some  saint  of  old,  with  her  great  glorious 
eyes  and  pure  flower-like  face. 
**  *  *          *  *  #  *  *  ** 

At  the  Hotel  Littoral,  Basil  Morne  was  busy  packing  his  multitudinous 
array  of  presents,  Sir  John  Dunworthy  watching  the  operations  while  he 
smoked. 

"  Now,  Jack,  remember  I  leave  you  my  commands.  You  are  to  get  well 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  follow  me  home. " 

"  All  right,"  said  Sir  John  ;  "  anything  more  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  It"  I  want  anything  brought  over,  I  can  write. 
No  —  unless  you  can  find  out  about  that  girl,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Basil; 
"that  I  certainly  should  like  you  to  do,  if " 

"  I  have  discovered  her  name,  if  that  will  satisfy  you,"  observed  Sir  John 
quietly. 

"  You  have!  Now,  Jack,"  and  Basil  sat  down  with  a  precious  vase  half 
packed  in  his  hand  ;  "  you  have  known  it  and  kept  me  in  the  dark.  What 
is  it?  and  how  did  you  find  it  out?  Is  she " 

"One  question  at  a  time,"  laughed  the  other.  "I  discovered  her 
name  through  the  merest  chance.  I  was  sauntering  just  now  through  the 
town,  and  I  saw  Molesworth.  He  is  staying  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Europe, 
you  know  ;  and  he  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  the  lovely  girl  ^very  one  was 
talking  about.  He  told  me  she  was  at  the  same  place  as  himself,  with  her 
father,  who  is  a  great  invalid,  supposed  to  be  fabulously  wealthy ;  that  their 
name  is  Messenger  —  hers  Ulrica,  and — voild  tout  I  " 

Basil  Morne  sat  silent. 

The  stopper  fell  out  of  the  vase  he  held,  but  he  made  no  effort  to  pick 
it  up. 


38  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

His  brow  was  wrinkled.  Suddenly  he  rose  with  a  tremendous  exclama- 
tion. 

"  Eureka ! "  he  shouted.     « It  is  she !    Won't  he  be  glad ! " 

Sir  John  removed  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  stared  at  his  companion. 

"Ulrica  Messenger,  of  course,"  continued  Basil,  lost  to  all  but  his 
thoughts.  "  Rica  —  little  Rica !  Why,  Uncle  Guy  has  been  looking  for 
her  for  the  last  ten  years,  and  he  has  never  been  able  to  find  a  trace  of  her ! 
Won't  he  just  be  glad!" 

"  This  is  all  exceedingly  vague  to  me,"  said  Sir  John. 

"  Of  course  it  is.     What  an  idiot  I  am." 

And  then  Basil  sat  down  and  told  his  friend  the  story  of  Ulrica  —  how 
she  had  been  beaten,  rescued,  and  brought  to  Wakehurst  Hall,  and  how 
she  had  been  taken  away  by  her  father,  and,  despite  all  Dr.  Strong's  efforts, 
been  lost  to  view  all  these  years. 

"  And  to  find  her  now  she  is  grown  up !    It  is  quite  like  a  .novel,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Hum !  I  don't  know,"  Sir  John  observed  dryly.  "  You  could  not  ex- 
pect to  find  her  a  little  girl  still.  In  the  ten  years  she  would  naturally  be 
grown. " 

"  Nonsense !  You  know  what  I  mean.  She  was  such  a  jolly  little  thing, 
and  I  remember  Connie  Wren  was  awfully  jealous  of  her,  and  behaved  very 
unkind  to  her.  She  always  was  selfish ! " 

"  And  she  retains  that  quality  now,"  Sir  John  observed  reflectively. 

"My  eye!  Ulrica  will  make  Connie  sit  up,  won't  she  ?"  cried  Basil. 
"  I'm  glad  I'm  going  home  now.  Uncle  Guy  will  be  so^leased,  and —  only 
think,  Jack,  I  kissed  her  long  ago ! " 

"  Get  on  with  your  packing,  Basil,"  Sir  John  said  quietly,  though  with 
a  heightened  color,  "  or  you  will  never  make  a  start  to-morrow  morning ! " 


CHAPTER  III. 

7"rLRICA  woke  early  the  next  morning ;  it  was  scarcely  five  o'clock.  She 
\J*  pulled  aside  her  curtains  and  looked  out  over  the  wooded  hill  that  rose 
at  the  back  of  the  hotel.  The  first  rosy  tinge  of  sunlight  was  glinting  the 
trees  ;  above  hung  a  gray  soft  mist  betokening  great  heat  in  the  coming  day. 

She  stood  several  minutes  by  the  open  window,  drinking  in  the  sweetness 
of  the  new-born  morning,  then  suddenly  determined  to  go  out  and  breathe 
it  in  all  its  freshness.  She  dressed  rapidly  and  stole  softly  down  the  stairs 
to  the  door. 

She  walked  through  the  town,  past  the  Casino,  till  she  came  to  the  ave- 
nue where  the  band  played. 

She  sauntered  on  for  some  time  very  leisurely,  buried  in  her  thoughts, 
when  she  was  astonished  to  hear  a  deep  rumbling  sound  overhead.  She 
looked  up  hurriedly ;  the  sky  was  overcast,  thick  clouds  were  spreading  over 
the  brilliant  blue  of  but  a  few  moments  before.  The  air  had  grown  closer 
and  hot,  and  while  she  glanced  round  drops  of  rain  pattered  down  on  her 
clean  white  gown  and  pretty  broad  hat.  Secure  in  this  for  a  shade,  she  had 
brought  no  umbrella,  and  now  she  was  two  miles  or  more  from  the  hotel, 
and  no  shelter  visible. 

A  loud  peal  of  thunder  settled  her,  and  gathering  her  skirts  tight  round 
her,  she  turned  back  and  sped  along  fleetly. 

Down  came  the  rain  ;  her  hat  was  soon  dripping,  and  her  sleeves  cling, 
ing  to  the  rounded  arms  in  damp  and  disagreeable  fashion. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  39 

The  lightning  was  vivid  and  terrible.  Ulrica  was  not  a  nervous  girl,  but 
the  grandeur  of  the  storm,  the  struggle  between  the  elements,  overawed  her. 

She  had  still  a  long  way  to  go.  The  lane,  now  thick  with  mud,  stretched 
blankly  before  her,  and  she  felt  very  dismal  at  the  sight  of  it,  when  at 
that  very  moment,  from  behind,  came  the  welcome  sound  of  a  human 
voice.  She  stopped,  and  a  man  ran  up  to  her  side. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  offer  you  my  umbrella  ?  " 

Ulrica  hesitated  one  moment,  than  a  glance  at  the  torrent  of  rain  de- 
cided her. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  she  replied  ;  "I  will  gladly  avail  myself  of  a 
part. " 

The  stranger  took  in  her  soaked  condition  in  one  look. 

"You  are  terribly  wet,"  he  exclaimed;  "I  am  afraid  you  will  catch 
cold.  Please  let  me  urge  you  to  put  on  this  "  —  hastingly  pulling  a  thick 
silk  handkerchief  from  an  inner  pocket,  and  handing  it  to  her — "round 
your  shoulders.  If  you  will  allow  me  to  advise  you,  I  should  suggest  your 
placing  it  across  your  chest,  under  that  wet  dress. " 

Ulrica  took  the  scarf  with  a  murmur  of  thanks  and  a  slight  blush.  The 
man  walked  beside  her  while  she  tucked  the  warm  soft  ends  through  the 
loose  neck  of  her  dress,  experiencing  at  once  a  decided  sense  of  comfort. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said  simply.  "It  was  foolish  of  me  to 
come  out  with  no  sunshade,  but  the  morning  was  so  lovely  I  was  tempted. " 

They  walked  on  quickly  through  the  rivulets  of  water  and  falling  rain. 
Ulrica  stole  a  glance  at  her  rescuer,  and  as  she  saw  his  left  arm  in  a  sling, 
she  suddenly  remembered  noticing  him  the  day  before  in  the  avenue. 

Shall  I  hold  the  umbrella  ?  "  Ulrica  said  hurriedly,  with  a  tinge  of  color 
in  her  face,  as  she  noticed  Sir  John  Dunworthy's  crippled  arm.  "  I  am 
afraid  you  find  it  difficult,  as  your  other  arm  is " 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  no.  This  hand  is  perfectly  sound.  I  managed  to  give 
my  left  arm  a  nasty  sprain  the  other  day.  Besides,"  he  added  with  a 
glance  at  the  small  white  ringers  holding  the  handkerchief  close  round  her 
throat,  "  I  don't  think  you  would  find  it  easy  to  hold  this  heavy  concern  in 
such  a  storm.  We  have  still  some  way  to  go.  I  hope  your  friends  will  not 
be  alarmed. " 

"  Oh,  no ;  no  one  knows  of  my  walk  —  not  even  my  maid.  Poor  Mary  1 
she  will  be  greatly  distressed ;  I  have  quite  ruined  my  dress,  the  fruits  of 
yesterday's  work." 

Sir  John  Dunworthy,  glancing  now  and  then  at  Ulrica,  thought  he  had 
never  seen  a  more  lovely  spectacle  than  the  damp  maiden  by  his  side. 

The  rapid  walk  had  brought  a  glow  to  the  cream-white  cheeks,  a  light 
to  the  wonderful  eyes.  There  were  no  curls  to  straggle  in  disheveled 
locks  across  her  brow,  and  though  the  liquid  mud  was  splashed  far  up  the 
white  skirt,  it  could  not  hide  the  trim  dainty  feet  that  bore  so  easily  and 
firmly  the  supple  body  above  them. 

As  they  approached  the  railway  station,  Sir  John  turned. 

"  Shall  we  go  in  here?  It  is  still  early,  but  I  fancy  they  can  get  you  a  cab 
if  ycu  like,  or  if  we  wait  a  little  while,  the  storm  may  pass." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ulrica,  who  began  to  feel  tired  and  wretched ;  "  I  think  I 
will  have  a  cab.  I  don't  believe  if  I  stop  walking  I  shall  be  able  to  begin 
again. " 

"  How  stupid  of  me !  I  have  been  going  too  fast,"  he  cried,  reproachfully. 
"  Please  forgive  me.  I  am  so  accustomed  to  stride  about  alone,  I  quite  for- 
got your  pace  would  me  more  moderate. " 


4<>  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

Ulrica  smiled  faintly.  v 

"  You  are  not  to  blame.  I  had  walked  a  good  distance  before  the  storm 
came  on. " 

They  were  at  the  station  by  this  time,  and  Sir  John  pushed  open  the  gate 
and  led  her  into  a  sort  of  general  waiting-room. 

"It  looks  like  a  deserted  village,"  he  said,  lightly;  "now,  will  you  sit 
here  while  I  go  and  reconnoitre  ?  " 

Ulrica  sank  shivering  into  a  seat  as  he  disappeared. 

She  heard  his  footsteps  die  away  in  the  distance,  and  sat  on,  quietly 
thinking  over  his  pleasant  manners  and  courteous  kindness. 

The  storm  was  passing,  the  clouds  breaking,  and  the  thunder  growing 
fainter  and  fainter. 

In  about  five  minutes  Sir  John  came  back. 

"  We  are  in  luck,"  he  said,  as  he  closed  the  door.  "  I  have  just  got  hold 
of  a  fly  that  was  going  into  the  town  ;  it  will  be  here  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  Ulrica  said,  warmly. 

"What  should  I " 

"  Please  don't  thank  me,"  he  interrupted.  "  I  only  did  the  most  ordinary 
thing,  and  feel  awfully  glad  I  happened  to  be  near.  A  storm  is  a  lonely  pro- 
ceeding all  by  one's  self.  I  sincerely  hope  you  will  not  derive  any  harm  from 
such  a  severe  shower-bath. " 

Ulrica  smiled. 

She  liked  his  frank  easy  manner  more  and  more ;  there  was  something 
wonderfully  fascinating  in  his  voice. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said,  after  they  had  exchanged  a  few  platitudes  and  remarks 
on  the  place  —  "I  hope  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  renewing  our  acquaint- 
ance. Do  you  stay  long  in  Spa  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  it  all  depends  on  my  father.  If  he  seems  to  like  the 
place,  it  may  be  weeks  —  months,  before  we  go;  if  he  takes  the  whim  into 
his  head  to  dislike  it,  we  may  go  to-morrow  —  perhaps  even  to-night." 

There  was  a  touch  of  weariness  in  her  voice. 

("  But  you  ?  "  he  could  not  help  saying. 
"  Oh,  I  am  nobody ! "  she  answered,  speaking  out  the  truth  without  re- 
serve.    "  I  am  practically  alone  ;  my  mother  died  when  I  was  a  little  child ; 
my  father  is  quite  helpless ;  he  has  softening  of  the  brain,  with  only  one 
strong  motive  in  his  feeble  mind  —  the  desire  to  be  forever  moving  about. 
He  does  not  like  me  to  leave  him  even  for  a  day. " 
,    "  It  is  a  hard  fate,"  he  said  slowly. 

Ulrica  looked  at  him  suddenly ;  their  eyes  met.  She  read  a  strange 
eagerness,  almost  tenderness,  in  his  gaze,  but  it  lasted  only  a  moment. 
She  woke  to  the  fact  that  she  had  been  discussing  her  affairs  with  an  utter 
stranger. 

She  rose  slowly,  and  a  coldness  came  in  her  face. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  cab  is  ready, "  was  all  she  said  j  but  he  was  quick  to 
take  the  hint. 

He  went  to  the  door ;  the  vehicle  was  just  entering  the  yard.  The  rain 
had  stopped,  and  already  the  sun  was  shining  out,  golden  and  hot  again. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Ulrica  gently,  as  she  sat  in  the  cab. 

Then  putting  up  her  hand,  she  would  have  removed  the  scarf,  but  he 
prevented  her. 

"  Please  keep  it  on,"  he  pleaded.  "  It  will  protect  you,  I  hope,  from  a 
severe  cold.  I  will  do  myself  the  'honor  to  call  and  inquire  if  you  have 
escaped  that  malady  to-morrow,  Miss  Messenger." 


HER  FATAT  SIN.  4! 

"  You  know  my  name ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  surprise. 

He  laughed  easily. 

"  Spa  is,  after  all,  a  small  place ;  the  inhabitants  —  or  the  visitors,  for 
the  matter  of  that  —  are  not  devoid  of  curiosity.  Your  appearance  here 
was  not  unnoticed.  Once  more,  good-bye !  " 

"  Au  revoir  !  smiled  Ulrica,  and  then  the  cab  rolled  away  from  the  tall 
form,  with  the  sunlight  gleaming  on  the  uncovered  head,  picking  out  the 
gold  in  the  brown,  wavy,  short  curls,  and  in  the  soft,  silky  mustache,  and 
sending  a  reflection  into  the  handsome  brown  eyes  that  would  haunt  her 
memory  as  she  rattled  through  the  wet  street. 

Her  maid  was  waiting  for  her  in  great  alarm,  and  ran  to  welcome  her, 
beginning  at  once  to  unfasten  the  small  shoes,  and  remove  the  ruined 
gown. 

She  glanced  curiously  at  the  scarf  her  mistress  wore. 

Ulrica  took  it  off  and  folded  it  up  carefully. 

"  This  must  be  returned  to  a  gentleman  when  he  calls,  Mary." 

"  What  name,  miss?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  but  he  will  call  to  inquire  for  me.  I  was  fortunate 
enough  to  meet  him  in  the  storm,  and  he  lent  me  this  scarf. " 

Mary  put  away  the  scarf  without  another  word. 

The  rest  of  the  day  passed  with  leaden  feet.  Ulrica  felt  a  trifle  languid 
and  tired  from  her  morning's  exertions. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  afternoon,  Father  Lawrence  was  announced. 

There  was  no  liking  or  sympathy  on  the  girl's  side  for  this  dark-faced 
priest. 

A  year  ago  they  had  met  him  in  their  wanderings,  and  with  a  strange, 
unaccountable  fancy,  George  Messenger  seemed  suddenly  to  cling  to  this 
man. 

Ulrica  at  first  was  quite  indifferent;  Father  Lawrence  was  a  pleasant 
companion,  and  seemed  to  have  a  soothing  influence  on  the  poor,  weak 
invalid. 

But,  as  month  succeeded  month,  she  grew  less  pleased  with  him.. 

She  could  not  have  told  exactly  why,  but  she  did  not  trust  him,  and 
secretly  resented  the  authority  he  seemed  tonexercise  over  her  actions,  not- 
withstanding it  was  carefully  veiled  by  a  religious  garb. 

Ulrica  looked  up  indifferently  as  Father  Lawrence  entered  the  room. 
He  advanced  towards  her,  noiselessly.  Although  over  six  feet,  he  always 
trod  gently,  and  generally  accompanied  his  walk  by  a  movement  of  his 
hands,  rubbing  them  softly  one  over  the  other. 

These  appendages  were  very  large,  white  and  thick,  and  Ulrica  had 
grown  to  know  their  very  movement  as  an  index  to  what  was  passing  in  the 
priest's  mind.  His  face  was  a  blank. 

"  So  you  are  recovered,  Miss  Messenger?  "  he  said,  as  he  stood  by  the 
graceful  figure. 

Ulrica  lifted  her  eyes  from  her  book  for  one  moment. 

"  I  have  not  been  ill, "  she  replied,  briefly.  Father  Lawrence  pulled  a 
chair  up  to  the  window. 

"Not  ill,  but  fatigued,"  he  said,  gently. 

"  What  should  fatigue  me?  " 

The  girl  indifferently  turned  over  a  page. 

"  You  are  not  accustomed  to  such  early  rising,  nor  such  exertion  as  you 
indulged  in  this  morning. " 

Ulrica  looked  at  him  very  straight. 


42  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  was  out?  " 

Father  Lawrence  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There  are  many  ways  of  learning  it,"  he  observed  smoothly;  "but  the 
simplest  is  to  inquire  of  a  lady's-maid  for  her  mistress'  health,  and  gather 
that  she  is  indisposed  from  over-fatigue,  consequent  on  an  early  walk,  and 
the  effects  of  being  caught  in  a  storm." 

Ulrica  looked  dissatisfied  at  the  explanation. 

"  My  father  is  in  his  room,"  was  all  she  said,  however,  and  she  bent  her 
head  over  her  book  again. 

"  I  know — I  have  just  left  him.  It  is  you  I  wish  to  speak  with,  not 
your  father. " 

Ulrica  leaned  back  and  waited. 

"  I  have  a  solemn  and  sacred  event  to  announce  to  you,  began  the  priest 
in  his  most  unctuous  tones,  watching  her  face  carefully.  "  It  has  pleased 
our  blessed  Lady  to  lend  me  her  Divine  aid  in  bringing  a  stray  lamb  into 
the  fold." 

Ulrica  was  silent  while  he  paused. 

"  You  will  scarcely  be  surprised, "  he  went  on  softly,  "  when  I  tell  you 
that  happy  soul  is  your  father. " 

Ulrica  let  her  book  slip  to  the  ground;  her  face  grew  very  pale,  but  she 
uttered  no  exclamation  of  surprise  or  objection;  she  onlyj  looked  straight 
across  at  the  priest,  with  a  fire  of  contempt  in  her  eyes,  and  scorn  round 
her  mouth. 

"  Is  this  the  truth?  "  she  asked  quietly. 

Father  Lawrence  had  risen,  his  brows  met  in  a  frown. 

"  It  is  like  you  to  doubt,"  he  answered  coldly.  "  I  have  spoken  the 
sacred  truth.  You  object,  of  course?  " 

"  Object !"  the  girl  said  very  quietly  and  sadly;  "  how  can  I  object?  You 
are  stronger  than  I;  what  use  are  my  words  now?  It  is  too  late.  To  you, 
no  doubt,  the  conversion  of  a  poor  broken  will  to  your  faith  is  a  glorious 
deed;  to  me,  knowing  and  seeing  all,  I  hold  it  contemptible ! " 

The  priest's  face  flushed  a  little. 

"  You  are  unjust  as  usual,"  he  replied  slowly,  "  but  your  words  do  not 
hurt,  they  grieve  me.  My  child,  in  your  blindness  you  judge  me  unjustly. 
What  have  you  in  your  life  but  principles  ?  and  against  these  principles  I 
bring  the  weapon  of  a  Holy  Church,  offering  sanctity,  absolution  to  the 
poor  weak  sinner,  blessing  with  a  glorious  graciousness  all  her  children, 
however  deep  they  may  be  steeped  in  sin,  even  —  even  as  your  father  may 
be." 

Ulrica  glanced  up  and  read  a  strange  expression  in  his  eye. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  murmured  quickly,  a  sudden  and  great 
dread  filling  her  heart. 

"  All  men  are  sinners,  I  meant  nothing  more  than  that.  I  sought  you 
now,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  to  tell  you  of  your  father's  con- 
version, and  to  acquaint  you  with  the  fact  that  in  two  day's  time  I  shall 
receive  him  into  the  Church  by  the  rite  of  holy  baptism.  You  will  be 
present  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  girl  quietly,  her  voice  very  low  and  sad  ;  "  to  me  it 
will  be  a  mockery  —  I  will  not  witness  it." 

The  door  was  closed,  and  Ulrica  was  alone ;  she  sat  on  very  still  for 
many  minutes  deep  in  thought. 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  43 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OIR  JOHN  DUNWORTHY  called  the  following  morning  and  received 
|J  his  scarf  from  Mary  with  a  message  of  thanks.  He  walked  away  feel- 
ing disappointed  that  Ulrica  had  not  given  him  an  interview,  but  in  a  few 
minutes  he  told  himself  he  was  a  fool  to  expect  any  such  thing  ;  she  could 
hardly  receive  a  young  man  who  but  for  an  accident  was  a  perfect  stranger 
to  her. 

He  felt  a  trifle  lonely.  Basil  Morne  had  departed  early  on  the  previous 
day,  and  he  missed  the  merry  rattle  of  the  boy's  talk. 

There  were  many  people  he  knew  by  sight,  but  few  intimate  friends,  yet 
he  lingered  day  after  day  in  Spa,  and  only  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  that  grace- 
ful form  walking  beside  her  father's  chair. 

The  tall  black-coated  figure  of  the  priest  was  always  with  her,  but  Sir 
John,  watching  carefully,  noticed  that  Ulrica  never  spoke  to  him,  and  that 
all  his  observations  were  directed  to  the  invalid. 

The  young  man  cast  about  in  his  mind  for  some  way  of  renewing  his 
speaking  acquaintance  with  Ulrica,  but  could  find  none  ;  until  she  made 
the  first  advance  he  could  do  nothing  but  wait. 

Mary  ha^fallen  a  victim  to  Sir  John's  brown  eyes  and  persuasive  charm 
of  manner,  and  had  carried  his  card  up  to  Ulrica  with  tremendous  import- 
ance. 

"  It's  your  fate,  Miss  Ulrica,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head  wisely. 

The  tiniest  shade  of  warmth  had  dawned  on  Ulrica's  cheek  like  the 
deepest  glow  of  a  blush  rose,  but  she  had  only  smiled. 

"  Sir  John  Dunworthy,  and  what  a  nice  gentleman  he  is,  too.  He  were 
quite  disappointed  at  not  seeing  you !  " 

"  Put  the  card  in  my  dressing-case,  Mary, "  Ulrica  had  answered  with 
just  a  faint  sigh. 

George  Messenger  had  been  baptized  into  the  Roman  Church  two  days 
after  her  interview  with  Father  Lawrence,  and  Ulrica,  now  that  all  was 
over,  felt  strangely  sad  at  the  event. 

It  snapped,  as  it  were,  the  last  tie  that  bound  her  to  any  one,  for,  lonely 
as  her  life  had  always  been,  her  father  had  made  incessant  claims  on  her 
duty,  and  now  she  found  herself  pushed  gently  and  firmly  aside  by  the 
priest,  who  bore  with  the  invalid's  peevishness  and  innumerable  wants  with 
the  patience  and  tenderness  of  a  woman,  and  by  the  aid  of  his  religious 
position  ruled  the  broken  spirit  with  the  greatest  ease. 

The  days  passed  in  dreary  succession.  People  had  grown  used  to  the 
sight  of  the  beautiful  girl  and  her  invalid  father  and  had  left  off  speculating 
about  them. 

Ulrica  liked  Spa!  If  only  Father  Lawrence  had  not  been  present,  she 
would  have  been  passively  happy,  but  his  continual  companionship  was  a 
trial  to  her,  his  unctuous  voice  vexed  and  irritated  her,  and  his  hold  over 
her  father  filled  her  with  alarm  for  her  own  future. 

They  were  walking  one  afternoon,  as  usual,  towards  the  avenue,  when 
a  small  carriage,  drawn  by  two  ponies,  was  pulled  up  close  to  the  pave- 
ment, and  the  priest  hurried  to  the  side  with  a  low  bow. 

Ulrica  and  her  father  passed  on.  The  girl  gave  only  one  glance  at  the 
occupants  of  the  carriage. 


44  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

A  small  fair-haired  woman,  gleaming  with  bugles  and  crtme  de  /*  implra- 
trice,  and  seated  beside  her  a  dark  keen-eyed  man. 

The  chair  was  drawn  slowly  down  the  avenue.  Ulrica  was  not  long  in 
finding  Sir  John's  form  among  the  loiterers,  and,  unconsciously,  she  gave 
him  a  warmer  smile  than  usual. 

Her  father  was  always  placed  in  one  particular  spot,  advantageously 
chosen  for  the  sake  of  the  music ;  and  the  servant  drew  up  as  usual,  while 
Ulrica  sent  him  for  one  of  the  loose  chairs  to  sit  beside  her  father. 

She  was  standing  watching  the  yellow  sunlight  glint  the  trees,  and  fall  in 
feathery  lace  patterns  on  the  broad  path,  when  she  was  startled  by  hearing 
a  curious  gasping  sound  come  from  the  bath-chair.  She  turned  quickly. 
George  Messenger  had  half  risen,  his  face  was  distorted,  his  eyes  glaring, 
his  hands  working  convulsively,  while  a  gray  shade  was  creeping  slowly 
over  the  sunken  cheeks. 

"  What  is  it?     What  shall  we  do,  Sims?  "   she  whispered. 

"It  is  a  fit,  Miss  Ulrica,"  the  man  returned  hurriedly.  "I  had  better 
fetch  a  doctor. " 

"  Can  I  help  you?  "  came  a  welcome  voice  at  this  moment ;  and,  looking 
up  with  a  white  face  and  trembling  lips,  Ulrica  saw  Sir  John  Dunworthy. 

"  Oh,  thank  you.  My  father  is  ilL  What  shall  I  do?  I  have  never 
seen  him  like  this  before. " 

"  Unfasten  his  necktie, "  exclaimed  Sir  John,  assisting  with  his  one  hand. 
"He  must  have  air.  Stand  back!"  he  cried  to  the  crow^.  that,  of 
course,  assembled  round,  gaping  and  unceremonious,  making  the  hot 
atmosphere  still  more  dense. 

She  sent  a  hurried  glance  ever  the  sea  of  faces. 

Curiosity,  and,  in  some  cases,  pity,  were  marked  on  them,  but  there  was 
nothing  alarming  in  their  gaze. 

Sir  John  watched  her  color  fade  slowly,  till  the  very  features  seemed 
marble. 

"  I  feel  certain  he  is  frightened  of  some  one  or  some  thing,"  she  mur- 
mured, in  reply  to  the  young  man's  anxious,  inquiring  look.  Oh,  when 
will  Sims  come,  and  why  will  people  stare  so  terribly  ?  " 

At  this  moment  an  official  was  seen  bustling  in  the  distance,  but  before 
he  could  reach  the  crowd  it  was  parted  by  a  strong  arm ;  a  tall  form  pushed 
unceremoniously  through,  and  bent  over  the  sick  man. 

"  I  am  a  doctor, "  said  the  new  comer  authoritatively,  after  taking  a  brief 
glance  at  his  patient ;  "  stand  back,  do  you  hear  ?  Merciful  Heavens !  do 
you  want  to  kill  the  man  altogether  ?  " 

Ulrica's  hand  was  still  held  between  her  father's  clutching,  working  fin- 
gers, but  her  other  grasped  the  chair-side  for  support.  Sir  John  longed  to 
draw  her  from  the  sight,  but  he  dared  not  touch  her ;  she  seemed  glued  to 
the  spot  with  fear. 

At  the  words,  "  I  am  a  doctor,"  she  uttered  a  faint  exclamation  of  relief 
and  gladness,  and  in  the  momentary  relaxation  from  her  alarm,  did  not 
hear  Sir  John's  cry  of  surprise  and  joy. 

"  Strong  —  thank  Heaven ! " 

Dr.  Strong  took  no  notice  of  either  ;  he  detached  the  girl's  small,  white 
hand  from  her  father's  weird,  yellow  one,  and  calling  the  official,  lifted 
the  contracted  form  from  the  chair,  and  carried  it  to  a  bench  beneath  some 
trees. 

Sir  John,  left  alone  with  Ulrica  —  for  the  people  flocked  after  the  doctor 
— .forgot  all  ceremony  in  his  anxiety  for  her,  and,  pushing  her  gently  in- 


HER   FATAL  SIN. 


45 


to  a  seat,  he  fanned  her  with  her  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  then  held  a  glass 
of  water,  which  some  kind  Samaritan  had  brought,  to  her  lips. 

She  repaid  him  with  one  look  out  of  her  glorious  eyes  which  made  his 
heart  beat  with  a  quick  strange  throb,  and  sent  the  blood  coursing  hotly 
through  his  viens.  » 

If  she  had  seemed  beautiful  to  him  that  early  morning  in  her  fair  fresh 
youthfulness  and  vigor,  she  appeared  doubly  to  him  now  as  she  leaned 
back  white  and  silent,  with  an  expression  of  wishfulness  round  her  mouth 
that  was  almost  pain. 

He  did  not^offer  to  speak,  but  waved  the  hat  to  and  fro  with  his  right 
hand,  content  in  the  thought  that  he  was  near  .her,  and  was  able  to  help 
her  once  again. 

In  a  few  minutes  Dr.  Strong  strode  over  to  them. 

"Your  father  is  very  ill,"  he  said  abruptly,  yet  gently;"  he  must  be  taken 
to  his  room  at  once;  will  you  tell  me  where  it  is  ?  " 

"I  will  come  with  you,"  said  Ulrica,  rising  hurriedly.  "Sims,  his 
man,  is  just  coming  j  he  will  help  you.  Hotel  de  1' Europe.  What  can  I 
do?"  ' 

"  You  will  stay  here,  please,"  commanded  the  doctor  promptly.  "  Dun- 
ta>rth,  please  see  that  my  orders  are  obeyed.  I  will  send  for  you  in  a  few 
moments. " 

"You  are  very  kind,"  murmured  the  girl,  sinking  into  her  chair  faintly. 
She  was  unconsciously  relieved  not  to  be  wanted.  Her  strength  had  been 
greatly  tried. 

"  May  I  stay  with  you?  "  asked  Sir  John  as  they  were  alone  again. 

"  If  you  will,"  she  answered  simply. 

The  stricken  man  was  lifted  onto  a  litter  and  carried  slowly  away,  at- 
tended by  the  entire  circle  of  promenaders.  The  avenue  suddenly  seemed 
deserted,  the  band  had  ceased  playing,  the  only  music  now  was  the  rustle 
of  the  trees  and  the  birds'  notes  to  one  another. 

"  You  are  better?  "  asked  the  young  man  gently,  as  the  crowd  vanished. 

She  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Better?  Yes;  but  how  terrible !  Am  I  always  to  live  in  trouble?  " 
She  clasped  her  hands  together  and  gazed  moodily  over  the  sunlit  path 
with  eyes  that  were  black  with  anxiety.  "  Whatcan  have  caused  it?  "  she 
murmured;  "  what  can  have  caused  it?  " 

"  The  heart,. perhaps,"  suggested  Sir  John.  "  Your4father,  I  take  it,  is 
far  from  strong,  and  the  summer  has  been  tremendous  enough  to  knock 
over  any  one  but  a  Red  Indian.  He  will  be  all  right,  you  will  see;  at  all 
events  he  cannot  be  in  better  hands  than  Strong's." 

"  You  know  this  doctor?  "  Ulrica  asked  with  some  surprise. 

"  Yery  well ;  he  is  a  near  neighbor  of  my  own  in  England. "  He  thought 
to  himself  that  he  knew,  too,  what  had  brought  Guy  Strong  to  Spa,  but 
he  refrained  from  speaking  of  the  past  for  fear  of  paining  her.  "  Is  there 
anything  I  can  do?  "  he  continued.  "  Any  telegram  I  can  send?  Please 
make  use  of  me. " 

"  No,"  said  Ulrica  quietly  and  sadly;  "  we  have^no'friends  but  one,  and 
he  is  away  with  his  wife ;  I  don't  know  exactly  where  to  find  him;"  she 
alluded  to  Sam  Loudon.  "  But  my  father  will  get  better  —  he  must  get 
better ! "  she  cried  suddenly  and  nervously;  she  was  brought  face  to  face 
with  a  dilemma  she  had  never  even  dreamed  of.  What  was  to  become 
of  her  when  her  father  was  gone?  4 

Sir  John  Dunworthy  soothed  her  tenderly;  he  spoke  of  Dr.  Strong's 


46  HER  FATAL   SIN. 

talent,  cheered  her  by  his  bright  manliness,  and  wove  the  first  link  in  the 
bond  of  a  true  friendship  by  his  gentle  courtesy  and  kindness. 

"  You  are  fated  to  help  me,"  said  Ulrica,  by-and-by,  a  faint  smile  dawn- 
ing on  her  cheek.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  I  appreciate  your  great 
kindness;  I  have  had  so  little." 

"  There  is  no  greater  happiness  for  me  in  this  world  than  to  be  your 
friend, "  Sir  John  answered  hurriedly,  scarce  knowing  what  he  said  as  he 
met  the  gaze  of  her  wondrous  eyes.  "  Don't  think  me  presumptuous;  I 
have  watched  you  so  much  lately,  I  seem  to  know  you  well. " 

The  girl  looked  at  him  quietly  for  a  moment ;  there  w^s  a  new  strange 
sensation  creeping  into  her  heart. 

"  My  friend !"  she  said  slowly.  "  Ah,  you  don't  know  what  that  means 
to  me — you  cannot  understand  how  much  the  word  seems  to  say.  Yes," 
stretching  out  her  hand — "  yes,  be  my  friend,  if  you  will." 

He  bent  his  head  and  touched  her  hand  with  his  lips.  Ulrica  rose 
quickly  with  a  flush  on  her  face. 

"There  is  the  doctor,"  she  murmured  hurriedly.  "He  will I 

must  go. " 

Guy  Strong  advanced  towards  them  with  gigantic  strides. 

"  Your  father  is  on  his  bed,"  he  said  abruptly.     "  You  may  come  now." 

"  How  can  I  thank  you !     There  is  no  great  danger,  is  there  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  immediate  danger. "  Guy  clasped  her  hand.  "  But  you 
must  not  get  nervous  or  anxious,  or  I  shall  have  two  patients  instead  of 
one." 

Ulrica  tried  to  smile,  but  her  lips  were  tremulous. 

"  Do  you  know,"  continued  Guy,  "  that  I  am  an  old,  old  friend  ?  I  car- 
ried you  in  my  arms  when  you  were  a  wee  thing.  You  don't  remember 
me?" 

Ulrica  raised  her  eyes  to  the  plain  kind  face,  and  after  a  moment's  scru- 
tiny, shook  her  head. 

"  Don't  you  remember  Basil,  and  Uncle  Guy  ?  " 

Ulrica  let  her  eyes  wander  away  over  the  scene,  while  she  cast  her 
thoughts  back  into  the  strange  troubled  mist  of  her  childhood ;  and  he 
watched  her  earnestly. 

"  Uncle  Guy ! "  she  repeated,  blankly;  "  Uncle  Guy !  Strange,  the  name 
seems  familiar  —  Uncle  Guy  and  —  Basil.  Yes;  and  "  —  her  face  suddenly 
cleared  —  "and  the  pretty  lady.  Yes,  yes;  I  remember  now  —  you  were 
good  to  me  when  I  was  a  poor  little  thing  at  Mrs.  Coxon's.  How  could  I 
have  forgotten?  And  you  —  you  carried  me  in  your  arms  that  cold  night. 
I  can  remember  it  all  so  well  now.  You  are  Uncle  Guy! " 

She  put  out  her  hands  eagerly  to  Dr.  Strong. 

"  Yes,  I  am  Uncle  Guy,"  he  said,  gently,  "  and  I  have  come  all  this  way 
to  see  you.  I  have  never  forgotten  your  sweet  little  face;  I  knew  you 
again  directly." 

CHAPTER  V. 

aLRICA  walked  back  to  the  hotel  in  a  state  of  bewilderment  and 
agitation. 

Dr.  Strong  spoke  little  to  the  girl ;  he  saw  how  overwrought  was  her 
mind,  and  knew  that  silence  and  quiet  were  the  best  prescription.  Sir  John 
had  left  them  to  return  to  his  rooms,  but  he  begged  permission  to  call  in  the 
evening. 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  47 

Sims  met  them  at  the  hotel  door. 

At  sight  of  his  face,  all  Ulrica's  dreaa  returned. 

"  How  is  he,  Sims?  "  she  asked,  hurriedly.     "  Is  he  oetter?  " 

"  Father  Lawrence  is  with  him,  miss,"  answered  the  man;  "  but  I  think, 
sir,  you  ought  to  go  to  him. " 

"  Oh,  go  at  once ! "  murmured  the  girl,  slipping  her  hand  from  his  arm 
and  growing  pale  again.  "  Shall  I  come,  too?  " 

"Yes,"  was  the  brief  reply.  As  they  mounted  the  stairs,  he  added: 
"Who  is  this  priest?  If  I  recollect  rightly,  your  father  used  to  be  a 
Roman  Catholic?  " 

"  He  was  not  until  a  week  ago.  Father  Lawrence  is  a  man  we  met  some 
time  past;  he  has  converted  my  father." 

Ulrica  could  not  prevent  a  sadness  creeping  into  her  tones.  "  He  has 
great  influence  over  him, "  she  added  slowly. 

They  had  reached  the  first  landing  as  she  spoke,  and  she  turned  impul- 
sively and  put  out  her  hands. 

"I  —  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come  !  "  she  said  hurriedly  ;  "  somehow  I 
seem  to  know  you  so  well,  to  feel  almost  as  though  I  were  a  little  girl  and 
you  were  helping  me  again.  I  may  call  you  Uncle  Guy,  may  I  not  ?  " 

He  clasped  her  hands  in  his. 

"  Yes,  dear,  always, "  he  answered,  and  then  he  sighed.     - 

Ulrica  turned  the  handle  of  her  father's  door  gently. 

He  was  lying  stretched  on  the  bed  still  in  his  outdoor  clothes. 

Bending  over  him  murmuring  softly  was  the  dark  face  of  the  priest.  He 
turned  as  the  girl  approached. 

"  He  tries  to  speak,  but  can  make  no  sound,"  he  said  quietly. 

Guy  Strong  moved  forward  and  put  his  hand  on  the  limp  wrist. 

"  You  have  excited  him,"  he  said  tersely.  "  I  left  orders  no  one  was  to 
be  admitted  till  I  returned." 

"  I  am  his  spiritual  physician,"  returned  Father  Lawrence,  rearing  his 
form  to  its  full  height ;  "  at  such  a  moment  it  is  my  duty  to  be  at  his 
side. " 

Ulrica  had  crept  into  a  chair  close  to  the  bed;  she  was  watching  Dr. 
Strong's  face  anxiously. 

There  was  but  a  feeble  throb  in  the  pulse,  and  Guy  hastily  poured  out 
a  draught  and  tried  to  force  it  between  his  pallid  lips. 

At  the  touch  of  the  firm  arm  beneath  his  head,  George  Messenger's  eyes 
opened.  They  wandered  slowly  round  the  room  as  if  in  search  of  some- 
thing. 

The  priest,  whose  placid  face  wore  almost  a  frown,  bent  forward  and 
began  to  whisper,  but  the  glazed  eyes  went  past  his  eager  countenance  still, 
as  if  they  sought  an  object. 

There  was  a  weak  effort  to  lift  the  nerveless  hands,  but  it  was  useless. 

"  He  wants  something,"  said  Guy  as  he  watched  his  patient  carefully. 

Father  Lawrence  bent  over  the  sick  man  and  once  more  murmured  softly, 
but  with  no  avail. 

The  gray  sunken  face  twitched,  and  the  lips  trembled  as  if  a  torrent  of 
words  would  pour  from  them,  yet  they  could  not  part  to  utter  one. 

Guy  put  his  hand  on  the  shrunken  body ;  there  was  a  wild  exciting 
beating  at  the  heart  one  moment,  almost  absolute  stillness  the  next. 

"  Shall  I  bring  Sims  —  he  may  do  some  good  ?  "  whispered  Ulrica,  her 
breath  coming  quick  and  fast. 

An  indescribable  fear  had  fallen  on  her. 


48  HER    FATAL   SIN. 

She  did  not  love  her  father,  but  it  was  horrible  to  see  him  lie  so  helpless 
and  give  no  aid. 

Dr.  Strong  nodded  his  head ;  the  end,  he  saw,  was  near  at  hand ;  he  was 
only  too  glad  to  get  Ulrica  from  the  room. 

She  rose  quietly  and  moved  softly  to  the  door,  but  before  she  reached  it, 
her  father's  eye  fell  on  her. 

With  an  effort  that  was  almost  superhuman,  he  sat  up,  his  face  con- 
vulsed, his  hands  working,  hoarse  gutteral  sounds  coming  from  between  his 
pallid  lips. 

"  He  wants  you  —  perhaps  you  can  soothe  him,"  cried  Guy,  putting  his 
arms  round  the  writhing  form. 

Ulrica  was  by  the  bedside  again  in  an  instant.  Her  father  fought  for 
his  breath,  struggled  to  speak,  but  all  words  died  in  the  confused  gasping. 

She  shrank  with  horror  from  the  sight  of  that  awful  distorted  face,  and 
would  have  fallen  had  not  the  priest  put  his  arm  round  her  and  drawn  her 
to  a  chair  at  the  window. 

Her  senses  faded  for  one  long  moment.  The  room  with  its  ghastly 
occupant  died  away  in  a  dim,  curious  fashion,  and  the  next  she  was  lying 
back  in  a  chair  and  Guy  Strong  was  bending  over  her. 

"  Don't  speak,"  he  said  quickly,  as  he  saw  her  lips  tremble. 

She  gave  one  glimpse  at  the  bed. 

Something  was  on  it ;  a  sheet  drawn,  hid,  yet  disclosed,  what  lay  be- 
neath. With  a  sudden  cold  shudder  she  realized  the  truth.  Her  father 
was  dead ! 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  Take  me  away,"  she  murmured  faintly ;  "  take  me  away ! M 

Guy  half  lifted  her  from  the  chair  and  hurriedly  supported  her  across 
the  room  to  the  landing. 

Her  maid  was  here,  hovering  about  in  case  of  emergency,  and  together 
they  assisted  her  to  her  room. 

Guy  put  her  on  a  couch  drawn  close  to  the  open  window,  with  the  soft, 
sweet  sunshine  and  air  streaming  in,  and  after  promising  a  sleeping- 
draught,  and  giving  strict  orders  to  Mary  to  administer  it,  took  his  de- 
parture. 

Outside  he  met  Father  Lawrence.  The  priest  was  walking  slowly  up 
and  down  the  passage. 

"  How  is  she  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  111  with  the  shock.  I  shall  keep  her  in  her  own  room  if  possible  until 
after  the  funeral,  which  must  be  hastened  on.  I  am  just  going  to  inter- 
view the  valet,  to  get  at  some  idea  of  the  state  of  things.  Can  you  give 
me  any  reason'  for  this  sudden  seizure  ?  " 

Father  Lawrence  shook  his  head. 

"  None  whatever.  The  poor  creature  was  unable  to  speak ;  he  seemed 
to  have  been  much  mentally  excited ;  but  despite  all  my  endeavors  I  could 
obtain  no  clew,  and  he  passed  away  without  the  last  sacred  rite  of  the 
Church,  to  my  sorrow. " 

"  Hum ! "  observed  Guy  quietly.  "  Miss  Messenger  has  told  me  of  her 
father's  conversion.  Religious  excitement  is  always  the  most  dangerous ; 
he  must  have  been  in  very  delicate  health  of  late." 

"An  additional  reason  for  administering  spiritual  sustenance,"  retorted 
the  priest  smoothly. 

Dr.  Strong  made  no  answer  to  this  ;  he  was  not  eager  to  prolong  tht 
conversation,  so,  with  a  bow,  passed  on  into  the  dead  man's  room. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  49 

Guy  left  the  man  and  went  out  to  dispatch  a  telegram  to  Paris  to  Sam 
Loudon,  in  the  hope  that  it  would  find  him. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  growing  red;  everybody  was  flocking  to  the  Prom- 
enade des  Sept-heures,  and,  after  his  visit  to  the  post-office,  Dr.  Strong 
turned  and  sauntered  along,  his  thoughts  going  far  ahead  of  his  steps. 

What  was  to  become  of  Ulrica  ?  Alone,  without  a  relative  even  of  the 
most  remote  kind  to  whom  she  could  apply,  what  could  she  do  ? 

It  was  a  serious,  an  awkward  position  for  a  young  girl ;  one,  too,  who 
possessed  such  peculiarly  great  personal  charms  as  she  did. 

In  his  musings  he  wandered  past  the  Britannique.  Sir  John  Dunworthy 
was  standing  at  the  entrance  smoking. 

"  Well,  what  news  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"  The  worst,"  Dr.  Strong  replied. 

"  Dead  ?  " 

Guy  nodded. 

"  Good  heavens !  how  awful  for  that  poor  thing ! "  exclaimed  Sir  John. 
"  What  is  she  to  do,  Strong  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  have  been  debating.  I  really  don't  know.  I  have 
this  instant  dispatched  a  telegram  to  a  Mr.  Loudon,  who  the  servant  tells 
me  is  a  sort  of  guardian  ;  but  it  may  be  some  time  before  he  receives  it,  as' 
he  is  supposed  to  be  away  from  Paris. " 

"  But  what  is  she  to  do  ?  No  friends  except  this  one  man  in  Paris  1  —  no 
relations !  Strong,  we  must  help  her. " 

Guy  threw  a  sharp,  hurried  glance  at  the  other's  handsome  fa£e. 

"  It  is  a  difficult  question.  If  Loudon  turns  up,  things  will  be  all  right, 
but  if  he  does  not,  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  do." 

"  Cannot  she  return  to  England  with  us  ?  Your  mother  or  mine  would 
welcome  her  most  warmly. " 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  about  the  latter,"  thought  Guy.     Aloud  he  said  : 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  thought  of  that,  of  course.  It  was  for  the  very  purpose 
of  seeking  Ulrica  out  and  carrying  her  home  with  me  that  I  left  Balhurst ; 
but  still  it  is  this  immediate  present  that  seems  difficult  to  arrange.  Her 
father's  will  must  settle  everything.  It  appears  to  me  we  can  do  nothing 
till  that  is  read ;  and  that  cannot  be  done  until  Loudon  arrives.  Anyway, 
I  am  more  than  glad  I  am  here  to  offer  all  the  help  I  can." 

They  sauntered  on  till  they  reached  the  hotel,  and  then  parted. 

The  funeral  took  place  two  days  following.  Sam  Loudon  never  came ; 
no  message  even  arrived  ;  it  was  evident  he  was  still  away. 

Ulrica  sat  in  her  bedroom  through  those  long  dreary  two  days,  listless 
and  wretched.  She  felt  no  sorrow  at  her  father's  death — love  for  him 
had  never  lived  in  her  heart;  therefore  there  was  no  grief. 

Ulrica  felt  rather  oppressed  and  stunned  by  her  position.  She  realized, 
for  the  first  time,  the  utter  loneliness  of  her  life.  She  knew  of  no  one  be- 
yond Sam  Loudon  to  whom  she  could  stretch  out  her  hands  for  sympathy, 
or  ask  for  advice. 

Guy  was  as  yet  strange  to  her  ;  and  though  she  thought  of  him  warmly, 
and  of  Sir  John  with  a  slight  flush  on  her  face,  yet  the  question  of  either 
of  them  being  actual  friends  and  advisers  did  not  come  to  her. 

She  remembered  Father  Lawrence  with  a  shudder  of  dislike,  and  ment- 
ally determined  to  have,  if  possible,  no  further  communication  with  him. 

She  had  only  Sam  to  fall  back  on ;  she  longed  for  him  wistfully  ;  he  had 
never  failed.  He  would  come  now  and  take  care  of  her  for  a  while,  till 
she  could  think  over  the  future  and  arrange  her  life. 


50  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

So  she  sat  and  thought  during  the  long  hours,  while  her  kind-hearted 
Mary  was  driven  to  despair  at  sight  of  her  white  troubled  face.  And  out- 
side the  rain  fell  in  depressing  and  steady  fashion,  adding  considerably  to 
the  gloom  of  the  situation. 

Ulrica  gazed  from  her  window  listlessly  at  the  wet  road ;  the  fine 
weather  had  suddenly  broken,  and  Spa  was  deluged  in  a  most  unusual 
fashion. 

Once  or  twice  the  sight  of  a  tall  figure  in  a  loose  English  ulster  striding 
towards  the  hotel  brought  the  color  to  her  cheeks,  but  otherwise  she  sat  on 
quietly  watching  the  few  pedestrians  as  in  a  dream. 

Guy  Strong  made  no  effort  to  see  her  until  the  funeral  was  over  ;  he 
questioned  Mary  frequently  about  her,  and  remained  as  long  as  he  could  at 
the  hotel  in  order  to  receive  the  telegram  from  Sam  directly  it  arrived. 

In  the  evening  of  the  day  he  returned  to  the  hotel,  and  mounting  the 
stairs,  knocked  at  Ulrica's  door.  Simultaneously  with  his  doing  so,  Mary 
appeared  in  the  corridor.  Ulrica  answered  his  summons,  and  put  her  hand 
into  his  without  a  word. 

"  May  I  come  in  and  talk  to  you?  "  he  asked. 

Ulrica  was  about  to  reply,  when  Mary  interposed. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Ulrica,  and  you,  sir,  but  Father  Lawrence 
sent  to  ask  if  you  would  kindly  go  into  the  lower  sitting-room.  He  has 
something  he  wants  to  tell  you. " 

Ulrica's  lips  compressed  a  little;  involuntarily  she  glanced  at  Guy. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  to  hear  what  his  communication  is;  it  may 
be  of  some  importance." 

"  Tell  Father  Lawrence  I  will  come,"  Ulrica  said  to  Mary;  then  as  the 
maid  disappeared,  she  added  to  Guy: 

"  Thank  you  for  your  kindness ;  you  are  very  good.  It  is  pleasant  to 
know  you  are  here ;  the  sense  of  utter  loneliness  is  appalling.  I  am  dis- 
tressed about  Sam's  silence.  Why  does  he  not  send  or  come?  It  is  so 
unlike  him." 

"  You  must  not  fret,"  Guy  answered,  soothingly;  his  ear  detected  the 
nervous  ring  in  her  voice.  Something  must  have  detained  him.  Have  you 
any  idea  what,  or  rather,  who  was  your  father's  lawyer?" 

Ulrica  shook  her  head. 

"  Sam  managed  all  the  business;  but  we  had  better  go  down,  I  suppose. 
What  can  Father  Lawrence  have  to  tell  me,  I  wonder?  " 

"  Perhaps  your  father  left  some  religious  commissions  in  his  hands,  which 
he  must  inform  you  of;  at  any  rate,  it  is  better  to  hear  him. " 

He  turned  the  handle  of  the  sitting-room  door  as  he  spoke,  and  they 
passed  in. 

Father  Lawrence  was  bending  over  the  table,  conversing  in  a  low  voice 
with  a  small,  thin  man.  As  they  entered,  he  drew  himself  up  and  bowed 
to  Ulrica,  who  returned  the  greeting  coldly. 

The  priest  glanced  at  Guy  with  an  imperceptible  frown. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  suavely,  "  but  my  communication  is  private." 

Ulrica  hesitated  only  for  an  instant,  then  putting  out  her  hand  to  Guy, 
said  slowly : 

"  Dr.  Strong  is  my  friend — please  go  on." 

Guy  clasped  her  hand  with  a  grip  that  was  almost  pain,  but  she  did  not 
notice  it. 

'.'  As  you  please  ;  of  course  it  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me.  I  have 
to  communicate  to  you  your  father's  last  wishes." 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  51 

Father  Lawrence  pushed  forward  a  chair  as  he  spoke. 

Ulrica  did  not  take  it,  but  stood  upright,  her  black  dress  falling  in  simple 
folds  round  her  supple  figure. 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  she  answered,  coldly. 

"  I  allud^  to  the  final  arrangements  of  his  property." 

"  Then  I  think  it  will  be  wiser  to  wait  till  Mr.  Loudon  arrives  ;  he  was 
my  father's  friend,  and  managed  his  affairs." 

"  Besides,  it  is  customary  to  wait  until  after  the  will  is  read,"  observed 
Guy. 

"  I  have  the  last  will  and  testament  of  the  late  Mr.  Messenger  here," 
broke  in  the  small  man  sitting  at  the  table. 

"  You  ?  " 

A  wave  of  color  passed  over  Ulrica's  face. 

"  When  was  it  made  ?  "  demanded  Guy  hurriedly. 

"  On  the  fifteenth  of  August. " 

"  Just  one  week  ago ! " 

"  Just  one  week  ago,  "repeated  the  man.     "  I  am  a  lawyer;  I  drew  it  up. " 

Both  Guy  and  Ulrica  were  silent ;  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  was  in  his 
tnind  ;  a  knowledge  that  in  some  way  the  priest  had  triumphed  was  in 
hers. 

"  You  had  better  read  the  will,"  said  Father  Lawrence  softly,  "with 
Miss  Messenger's  permission." 

Ulrica  lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 

"  Yes,  read  it,"  she  said  very  quietly. 

The  lawyer  coughed,  rose  from  his  chair,  and  began  to  intone  rather 
than  to  read  from  the  parchment  he  held. 

Ever  and  again  as  the  sentences  ceased,  Father  Lawrence  looked  at  the 
girl ;  there  was  no  sign  of  disturbance  or  alarm  on  her  face  ;  her  attitude 
never  altered  ;  she  kept  her  hands  quietly  folded  the  whole  time. 

"  It  is  iniquitous  !  "  exclaimed  Guy,  as  the  lawyer  began  to  fold  up  the 
document. 

"You  use  strong  words,  sir,"  remarked  the  priest,  with  knit  brows. 
"  Have  you  no  reverence  for  the  dead  ?  " 

"  This  is  not  the  work  of  the  dead  ;  it  is  the  scheming  of  the  living.  I 
thought  a  priest's  office  was  to  administer  spiritual  comfort,  not  to  work 
rank  injustice." 

"  You  do  not  know  Father  Lawrence. " 

The  words  were  uttered  in  clear  distinct  tones.  Ulrica  moved  a  few 
steps  forwards  and  placed  one  hand  on  a  chair ;  her  face  was  very  pale, 
but  her  eyes  blazed  with  the  contempt  that  was  surging  in  her  breast. 

"  I  do  ;  we  understand  one  another.  Father  Lawrence,  you  have  worked 
well ;  by  the  terms  of  this  will,  if  within  six  months  I  do  not  enter  the 
Church  of  Rome,  you  inherit  every  penny  of  my  father's  money.  You 
know  very  little  of  my  character  if  you  imagine  such  an  alternative  would 
influence  me  ;  it  is  well  to  bring  all  communication  between  us  to  an  end 
now;  once  and  for  all,  therefore,  here  in  the  presence  of  witnesses,  I  declare 
I  shall  never  enter  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  that  I  accept  the  wishes  of  my 
father  as  final. " 

"  You  have  still  six  months  for  reflection  ;  by  then,  perhaps,  you  will 
have  changed  your  mind,"  the  priest  remarked  sharply. 

"  I  shall  never  change  my  mind  on  this  point. " 

Guy,  watching  her  face,  saw  the  lips  compress  again,  and  then  a  wave  of 
emotion  pass  over  them. 


52  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

"  If  everything  else  urged  me,"  she  said  swiftly,  "  the  knowledge  of  what 
your  religion  means  would  be  a  sufficient  barrier  to  my  conversion. " 

She  bowed  and  turned  away.  Guy  stepped  forward,  drew  her  hand,  and 
led  her  from  the  room. 

They  mounted  the  stairs  in  silence  till  they  reached  the  door ;  then  Guy 
spoke. 

"  There  must  be  something  wrong  about  this  disgraceful  business, "  he 
said  hurriedly ;  "  will  you  give  me  permission  to  investigate  it  ?  " 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  "  returned  Ulrica  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  am  power- 
less. If  Sam  were  only  here ! "  She  passed  her  hand  wearily  over  her 
eyes. 

"  I  will  go  at  once  and  send  another  wire,  but  first  I  want  you  to  pr  Bra- 
ise something. " 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  That  you  will  look  upon  me  as  Sam  for  the  time,  and  that  you  will  let 
me  take  you  away  to  my  mother  in  England. " 

Ulrica  hesitated  only  for  one  instant ;  a  rush  of  comfort  came  with  his 
last  words. 

"  I  promise,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"  Thank  you. " 

Guy  bent  and  kissed  her  hands  ;  then,  as  the  door  closed  upon  her,  he 
ran  down  hastily  to  the  other  room. 

"  The  legality  of  this  will  must  be  tested,"  he  said  coldly  as  he  entered. 

"  Show  Dr.  Strong  the  document,"  was  the  priest's  reply. 

The  will  was  drawn  out  in  proper  form  and  signed  by  two  witnesses. 

"  The  one  is  a  waiter  here, "  observed  the  lawyer,  "  the  other  a  trades- 
man in  the  town,  who  will  answer  any  questions  Dr.  Strong  may  choose  to 
make. " 

Guy  put  the  will  down  quietly. 

"  You  forgot  one  thing,"  he  said  to  Father  Lawrence :  "  the  state  of  Mr. 
Messenger's  mind  when  this  will  was  made. " 

For  answer  the  priest  took  out  a  capacious  pocket-book,  and,  extracting 
a  paper,  handed  it  to  Guy. 

"  The  medical  certificate  of  Mr.  Messenger's  physician  during  the  last 
year,  stating  that  the  dead  man's  mental  faculties  were  unimpaired  at  the 
time  he  signed  that  will." 

Guy  glanced  at  the  signature ;  it  was  well  known  to  him. 

"  You  are  a  subtle  strategist,  Father  Lawrence,"  he  observed  dryly,  "at 
every  point  well  armed.  I  sincerely  trust  you  will  not  find  this  money  bring 
you  evil  results. " 

Against  himself  the  priest  started,  and  changed  color  a  little ;  he  did  not 
reply,  however,  but  returned  the  letter  to  his  note-case. 

"  Miss  Messenger  has  decided  to  start  for  England  to-night,"  continued 
Guy  after  a  slight  pause;  "  she  will  stay  with  my  mother.  As  she  has  given 
you  her  decision,  from  which  I  am  assured  she  will  never  move,  may  I  beg 
that  you  will  in  no  way  seek  to  approach  her?  Sach  a  course  can  be  pro- 
ductive of  nothing  but  pain  and  annoyance  to  her. " 

"  Until  the  six  months  have  expired,  I  cannot  accept  Miss  Messenger's 
decision  of  to-day  as  final,"  returned  Father  Lawrence ;  "  the  wishes  of 
the  dead  are  sacred  to  me;  therefore,  I  must  refuse  to  agree  to  your 
request. " 

"  '  Forewarned  is  forearmed,'  "  was  Guy's  reply,  and  too  angry  to  say 
more,  he  left  the  room. 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  53 

A  telegram  was  handed  to  him  as  he  stood  in  the  passage.  He  tore  it 
open  ;  it  was  from  Mrs.  Loudon,  dated  San  Remo. 

"  My  husband  is  very  ill  j  cannot  possibly  travel.  Please  let  us  know 
Ulrica's  movements." 

This  news  settled  him ;  they  would  start  immediately  for  London,  and 
his  mother. 

He  determined  not  to  tell  Ulrica  of  Sam's  illness  until  they  arrived  in 
England,  knowing  that  the  fact  would  grieve  and  alarm  her. 

He  sent  for  Mary,  gave  her  instructions  to  have  everything  ready  as 
quickly  as  possible,  then  hurried  back  to  the  Britannique  to  inform  Sir  John 
Dunworthy  of  thtir  hasty  departure. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

JTJHE  journey  to  England  was  soon  at  an  end.  Ulrica  was  carried  fleetly 
1  away  from  London,  with  its  smoke  and  roar,  down  through  fresh 
green  fields  and  groups  of  trees,  to  the  country ;  thence,  after  a  hearty 
au  revoir  from  Sir  John,  she  was  bowled  in  a  handsome  carriage  up  to 
Bathurst  Hall,  the  property  of  Guy  Strong. 

"  Welcome  home ! "  Guy  said  tenderly,  as  he  helped  her  to  alight. 

Her  emotion  was  quickly  dispelled,  for  Basil  Morne  came  on  the  scene, 
followed  by  a  girl  —  such  a  happy,  good-tempered,  ugly  girl,  with  a  mass 
of  red  hair  and  dancing  green-gray  eyes. 

Dr.  Strong  found  himself  enveloped  in  this  young  maiden's  embrace. 

"  Dear  Uncle  Guy,  how  lovely !    We  didn't  expect  you  till  any  tune. " 

Guy  laughed. 

"Didn't  you,  Chattie!  Now,  to  make  friends  with  your  new  cousin. 
Ulrica,  this  is  Chattie  Wren,  the  dearest  tomboy  in  the  whole  world. " 

Ulrica's  face  was  hidden  beneath  her  crape  veil,  but  Chattie  put  up  her 
lips  nevertheless  for  a  kiss. 

Basil  had  already  made  himself  known,  and  Guy  led  the  young  stranger 
indoors. 

"  Here  is  my  mother,  Ulrica,"  he  said,  as  they  met  a  sweet -faced,  white- 
haired  lady  just  inside.  "  You  must  learn  to  love  her. " 

"That  will  be  easy, "  whispered  the  girl  almost  tearfully. 

"  Where  is  Connie?  "  demanded  Dr.  Strong. 

"  Where  do  you  think?  "  laughed  Chattie.  "  Up-stairs,  having  a  pleasant 
afternoon  with  Jones.  There  is  a  ball  at  the  Goodwins  to-night,  and  she 
is  going. " 

"  Oh,  ah,  of  course;  I  forgot.  Well,  Ulrica,  I  dare  say  you  would  like 
to  go  your  room?  " 

"  Yes;  I  will  show  her  the  way,"  cried  Chattie,  dancing  up-stairs.  "  You 
are  to  have  the  Robin  Room,  next  door  to  mine. " 

Ulrica  felt  her  spirits  rise  from  the  very  instant  she  entered  this  peaceful 
home. 

Little  did  she  dream,  as  she  glanced  at  her  smiling  reflection,  that  a  day 
would  come  when  the  sunshine  of  this  hour  would  be  torn  from  her,  and 
this  very  room  witness  her  battling  with  a  sorrow  that  almost  killed  her. 

No  such  visions  troubled  her;  she  was  serene  in  her  new  happiness,  and 
when  a  tap  came  to  the  door,  she  uttered  "  Come  in!"  in  such  light  joyous 
tones,  that  sounded  strange  even  to  her  own  ears. 


54  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

It  was  Guy's  mother  who  entered,  and  bent  to  give  the  lovely  face  a  kiss. 

"  I  have  come  to  take  you  down  to  dinner,  dear.  Guy  thought  you 
might  feel  lonely,"  Mrs.  Strong  said  kindly,  smiling  affectionately  at  the 
girl. 

"  How  good  you  are !    Thank  you  so  much ! " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  walk  slowly.  I  am  not  quite  as  agile  as  I 
was." 

Ulrica,  for  answer,  drew  the  thin  white  hand  through  her  arm,  and  the 
two  paced  quietly  down  the  stairs  conversing  naturally. 

Chattie,  in  a  nondescript  garment  of  green  muslin,  was  assisting  as  an 
onlooker. 

It  was  not  Miss  Wren's  usual  custom  to  dress  for  a  ball  until  after  din- 
ner, but  she  had  determined  to  make  her  first  appearance  before  this  much- 
talked-of  stranger  en  grande  toilette. 

"Put  that  diamond  butterfly  to  the  left,  Jones,"  said  Connie,  turning 
her  dainty  head  round.  "Yes — there.  Now,  Chattie,  how  do  you  like 
it?" 

"Hum!"  Chattie  observed  critically.  "Looks  like  a  French  fashion- 
plate  ;  "  then  seeing  her  sister  frown,  she  added :  "  But  it's  very  nice  ;  and 
it  won't  dance  down." 

Then  there  was  a  silence  while  the  skirt  was  lifted  with  care,  and  much 
rustling,  over  the  elaborate  coiled  tresses. 

"  She  wears  no  fringe,"  said  Chattie,  as  this  was  successfully  accom- 
plished. 

"  How  bourgeoise!  "  exclaimed  Connie.     "  Is  she  really  good-looking?  " 

"  Good-looking  ?     Why,  Connie,  she's  lovely !  " 

"  Your  ducks  are  always  swans,"  was  Miss  Wren's  retort. 

"  Well,  you'll  see  her  at  dinner,  and  you  can  then  judge  for  yourself." 

Chattie  walked  to  the  door,  stopped  before  the  long  mirror  to  indulge 
in  a  fantastic  dance. 

"  Hum! "  mused  Connie,  as  the  bodice  was  laced  to  her  rounded  figure. 
"  Sets  up  for  a  beauty,  does  she  ?  I  am  glad  Amina  sent  this  dress  in  time. " 

"  There  goes  the  gong,  Connie !  "  shrieked  Chattie  ;  "  make  haste !  It 
will  be  a  perfect  farce,  her  sitting  through  dinner,"  was  her  muttered 
thought,  "  for  I  don't  believe  she  can  swallow  a  single  mouthful!  " 

The  whole  party  were  assembled,  and  half-way  through  the  first  course, 
when  Miss  Wren,  with  much  rustle  and  a  scattered  air  of  perfume,  sailed  in. 

In  answer  to  Guy's  introduction,  she  dropped  a  curtsy  to  Ulrica,  who 
had  risen  and  held  out  her  hand,  and  then  she  arranged  herself  on  the  edge 
of  a  chair,  sitting  bolt  upright,  and  creaking  painfully  whenever  she  moved  ; 
but  her  waist  was  the  size  of  a  tumbler,  consequently  she  was  happy. 

Ulrica  had  withdrawn  her  hand  shyly,  and  felt  at  first  a  little  uncomfort- 
able, but  the  rest  of  the  party  were  so  kind  and  genial,  this  feeling  soon 
wore  off. 

Ulrica  gazed  at  Connie  in  admiration  and  amazement ;  she  was  so  pretty, 
her  hair  was  so  golden,  her  skin  so  white,  her  cheeks  so  pink,  she  seemed 
perfectly  lovely  to  the  generous  mind  of  the  new  comer. 

Connie,  on  the  other  hand,  was  mortified  beyond  measure  at  the  indis- 
putable beauty  opposite  ;  there  was,  too,  an  air  and  style  about  this  girl 
that  was  most  agreeable  to  contemplate. 

"  And  her  gown  is  cut  splendidly  too !  "  was  her  vexed  reflection  ;  "  she 
has  one  of  the  new  skirts.  I  must  tell  Jones ;  it  will  certainly  not  do  to 
be  behind  her." 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  55 

And  there  was  a  frown  on  the  pretty  face  till  Guy,  in  the  midst  of  a 
conversation  with  Ulrica,  looked  round  suddenly. 

"  Connie,  I  quite  forgot ;  there  is  a  white  bouquet  arrived  for  you  from 
London — a  present  from  Dun  worthy.  He  desired  me  to  ask  you  to  keep 

him  some  dances. " 

*  *  *  »  *  *«*** 

A  week  passed — a  happy,  delightful  week  to  Ulrica. 

Each  day  brought  Sir  John  Dunworthy  to  Bathurst  Hall,  and  somehow 
the  height  of  enjoyment  vanished  when  he  was  not  present 

After  lunch,  the  four  young  people  went  into  the  grounds,  and  Connie 
adroitly  claimed  Sir  John's  arm,  pleading  a  little  lameness,  which  was  not 
unfounded,  for  her  shoes,  though  pretty,  were  distinctly  small. 

Ulrica  saw  nothing  of  her  plotting ;  she  was  so  happy,  so  radiantly  con- 
tent in  her  new  life.  All  Connie's  spiteful  remarks  fell  unheeded. 

Between  Chattie  and  her  sister  there  was  very  little  love ;  the  former 
was  the  devoted  slave  of  Ulrica,  who,  in  return,  had  grown  to  love  the 
impetuous  little  maiden  heartily. 

Ulrica  and  Chattie  ran  ahead,  and  seated  themselves  on  a  clump  of  moss- 
covered  trees,  while  Sir  John  was  compelled,  much  against  his  will,  to  pilot 
Connie  slowly  towards  them. 

They  chatted  on  general  subjects  for  a  little  while,  and  then  Connie  said: 

"  Does  Mr.  Mott  return  to-night  ?  " 

Sir  John  was  gazing  earnestly  at  Ulrica's  lovely  face. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  answered  indifferently.  • 

Connie  frowned  as  she  saw  the  direction  of  his  eyes. 

"  Is  there  not  something  queer  about  his  past  ?  "  she  went  on,  determined 
to  claim  all  Sir  John's  attention. 

He  roused  himself. 

"  Yes  ;  I  believe  he  has,  or  rather  had,  a  history ;  but  who  has  not  ?  I 
confess  I  don't  particularly  care  for  Mott,  but  he  is  wonderfully  popular, 
especially  with  women. " 

"  I  wonder  he  does  not  marry,"  continued  Connie. 
|    Ulrica  gave  a  slight  shudder. 
|    "  I  cannot  bear  him,"  she  said  involuntarily. 
j    "  Poor  Mr.  Mott ! "  observed  Connie  dryly. 
1     "Now,  I  can't  make  up  my  mind,"  sa;4  Chattie,  knitting  her  brows.         • 

"  Have  you  got  one,  Charlotte  ?  "  asked  Sir  John  lazily,  turning  the 
conversation. 

"  I  will  give  you  a  piece  of  it,  if  you  like,  Johnny  Jack,"  was  the  retort. 
"  Ulrica,  wake  up — you  are  going  to  sleep!  You  have  not  seen  anything 
yet.  Come  as  far  as  the  old  well. " 

Ulrica  rose  at  once,  and  Sir  John  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"  I  must  do  the  honors,  Chattie,"  he  said  quickly.  "  Will  you  come, 
Miss  Wren  ?  » 

Connie  hesitated  ;  the  thought  of  Ulrica  going  off,  even  for  a  few  min- 
utes, with  Sir  John,  was  gall  and  wormwood,  but  a  glance  at  her  feet  de- 
cided her.  She  knew  the  path  too  well,  it  was  rough  walking  all  the  way, 
and  every  movement  meant  acute  pain  ;  besides,  Chattie  made  a  third. 

"  No,  I  will  stay  here,"  she  said  sweetly,  and  a  little  plaintively;  "  don't 
be  long." 

"  All  right ! "  cried  Chattie. 

Sir  John  and  Ulrica  were  already  moving  on,  and  the  fair  martyr  to 
fashion  was  left  to  solitude  and  to  her  own  devices. 


56  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

i 

"  It  would  have  been  an  awful  fraud  to  pretend  to  come  out  and  admire 
the  scenery  and  never  move  from  one  spot, "  cried  Chattie  as  they  made 
their  way  down  a  rough  incline.  "  Now,  Jonathan  Jack,  please  remember 
you  are  showman. " 

"  Thanks  for  reminding  me  of  my  duties,"  said  Sir  John,  whose  spirits 
seemed  to  rise  buoyantly  at  every  step. 

It  was  gradually  dawning  on  him  that  he  only  experienced  true  happi- 
ness when  in  the  presence  of  this  girl  with  the  soft  creamy  skin  and  won- 
drous violet  eyes. 

He  had  not  tried  to  gauge  the  depths  of  his  feelings  for  her,  content  to 
live  in  the  golden,  unconsciously  beautiful  dream  that  seemed  to  linger 
round  her. 

"  This,  then,  Miss  Messenger,"  he  began  gaily — "  this  well  to  which  we 
are  taking  you,  is  one  of  the  ancient  remains  on  my  estate.  This  path  we 
are  traveling  now  is  said  to  have  been  worn  by  the  feet  of  the  monks  who 
fetched  and  carried  the  water.  Part  of  the  castle  is  supposed  to  have  been 
a  monastery.  I  incline  to  the  thought  that  some  one  of  my  ancestors  built 
a  chapel  for  his  own  private  use,  but  this  is  quite  an  objectionable  theory 
to  my  mother,  who  would  rather  think  of  our  home  as  bestowed  on  some 
Warrior  for  reward  and  booty,  than  imagine  one  of  them  a  papist. 

"  What  does  it  matter  so  long  as  you  have  the  castle?  "  said  Chattie, 
turning  to  look  back. 

"  I  don't  think  it  does  much,"  replied  Sir  John.  "  Miss  Messenger,  this 
is  awfully  rough;  let  me  help  you." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  Ulrica  answered,  feeling  her  color  rise  and  her  heart 
thrill  strangely;  "  1  am  quite  safe." 

"  Only  a  few  steps  more,"  called  Chattie,  lightly  skipping  down  and  dis- 
appearing in  a  bend  in  the  path. 

"  You  must  let  me  help  you,"  Sir  John  said  almost  peremptorily,  putting 
Out  his  hand. 

Ulrica  slipped  her  little  one  into  it,  and  at  the  contact  her  heart  thrilled 
again. 

The  young  man  said  nothing  more,  but  he  clasped  the  hand  in  a  firm 
Way,  and  guided  her  feet  on  to  secure  places. 

A  few  more  steps  were  taken,  and  then  they  came  upon  Chattie  seated 
on  the  broad  stonework  that  surrounded  the  old  well,  stooping  down  to 
gaze  into  its  depths. 

"  Take  care,  Chattie  dear  ! "  cried  Ulrica,  drawing  her  hand  from  Sir 
John' sand  moving  forward  hurriedly;  "  we  don't  want  to  lose  you  just 
yet !" 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right  !    Look  down,  Ulrica — isn't  it  deep  ?  " 

Ulrica  bent  over. 

Down  at  the  very  bottom  she  caught  the  glimmer  of  the  blue  sicy  re- 
flected in  the  silent  water. 

*  Draw  us  some,  Jonathan  ?  "  commanded  Chattie  lazily.  "  What  good 
are  you  if  you  don't  do  something  for  your  living — eh  Ulrica  ?  " 

Sir  John  looseHed  the  old  bucket  with  its  rusty  rattling  chain,  and  they 
watched  it  sink  lower  and  lower  till  only  a  faint  splash  told  them  it  had 
reached  its  goal ;  than  Chattie  would  help  to  wind  it  up,  and  Ulrica,  not 
to  be  outdone,  put  her  hand  on  the  rail  and  pulled  too. 

Somehow  it  looked  a  pretty  sight  to  the  young  man,  those  delicate 
fingers  next  to  his  own  brown  strong  ones. 

"Look  out!"  shrieked  Chattie,  as  the  bucket  with  its  cool  sparkling 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  57 

burden  reached  the  top  ;  "  mind  yourielves  ! "  and  she  swung  the  whole 
concern  on  to  the  ledge.  "  Now,  put  down  your  lips,  and  drink,  pretty 
creature,  drink  !  Cups  are  scarce  in  this  neighborhood. " 

Ulrica  took  off  her  broad-brimmed  hat  and  bent  her  head  to  the  water, 
with  a  blush  and  a  laugh,  Sir  John  feasting  his  eyes  the  while  on  her  mar- 
velous beauty.  The  sun  shone  on  her  uncovered  hair,  glinting  its  golden 
threads  and  deep  russet-brown  shadings  with  its  warm  touch. 

"  I  like  brown  hair  much  better  than  yellow,  don't  you,  Johnnie  Jack?  " 
queried  Chattie. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Sir  John,  quietly. 

"  I  don't,"  cried  Ulrica,  as  she  quickly  donned  her  hat  again.  "  I  love 
real  golden  hair." 

"  So  do  I  —  when  it  is  real,"  returned  Chattie,  dryly. 

"  Shall  we  rest  here  a  little  before  we  begin  to  climb  up  again  ?  "  asked 
Sir  John  of  Ulrica. 

"Please." 

"  All  right.  I'm  not  tired  ;  so,  while  you  sit,  I  will  ramble  about.  Whistle 
for  me  when  you  go.  I  don't  care  for  solitude,  even  in  broad  daylight,  and 
this  is  a  ghostly  place,  you  know." 

And  Chattie  disappeared  as  he  spoke. 

"  Ghosts!"  repeated  Ulrica,  as  she  seated  herself  on  the  moss-covered 
stones;  "  I  suppose  you  have  any  number  at  the  castle,  Sir  John?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  replied  the  young  man,  putting  one  foot  on  the  low  wall, 
and  resting  his  elbow  on  his  knee ;  "  tradition  credits  us  with  the  usual 
amount  of  murderers,  robbers,  and  other  unpleasant  people." 

"  All  old  families  have  such  legends,  have  they  not  ?  "  continued  Ulrica, 
evading  his  earnest  gaze.  "  At  least,  so  Miss  Wren  tells  me. " 

"  Then  it  must  be  correct,"  said  Sir  John,  with  a  mischievous  movement 
at  the  corners  of  his  mouth;  "  for  Miss  Wren  is  an  authority  on  such  matters. 
For  my  part,  I  think  it  brings  our  ancestors  down  to  a  very  low  level.  In 
a  hundred  years  hence  perhaps  the  descendants  of  the  man  who  is  hanged 
for  murder  to-day  will  hold  their  heads  high  on  that  very  account.  The 
motive  is  the  same.  I  would  much  rather  revere  the  memory  of  an  ancestor 
who,  by  sheer  industry  and  perseverance,  had  made  his  way  in  life,  fighting 
against  every  possible  hardship  and  poverty. 

"  Now  it  is  my  turn  to  warn  you.  Don't  let  Lady  Dunworthy  hear  these 
sentiments, "  said  Ulrica,  laughing  lightly,  "  or,  if  I  judge  her  right  in  the 
short  time  I  have  known  her,  I  should  say  there  would  be  warfare. " 

"  You  like  my  mother?  "  he  asked  quickly. 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course.     I  am  speaking  in  jest  ;  she  is  very  kind. " 

In  her  inmost  heart,  Ulrica  was  not  quite  sure  on  the  point  of  Lady 
Dunworthy,  but  she  determined,  for  Sir  John's  sake,  to  try  and  like  her 
exceedingly. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  met,"  he  continued  ;  "  I  hope  you  will  be  very 
good  friends. " 

"  If  it  rests  with  me,  I  can  at  once  promise  it  shall  be  so." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  just  glanced  at  him  ;  but  as  she  met  the  strange 
warmth  and  tenderness  in  his,  she  turned  her  face  away  till  the  blush  had 
faded  again  from  the  cream-white  skin. 

Sir  John  noticed  that  dawn  of  color  and  felt  a  new  thrill  at  his  heart. 
He  moved  his  foot  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  Now  we  are  alone,  I  want  to  say  how  happy  Unmakes  me  to  welcome 
you  to  my  home,"  he  said  hurriedly. 


58  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"  You  are  very  kind  ;  it  is  a  great  happiness  to  me  to  come." 

Ulrica  drew  the  glove  nervously  from  her  left  hand. 

"  Is  that  really  true  ?  "  he  began,  but  before  he  could  proceed  further, 
the  bushes  parted  and  Chattie  stood  before  them. 

"  The  largest  toad  I  ever  saw  in  my  life ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  If  you  are 
rested,  Ulrica,  let  us  go  up  to  civilization  again ! " 

"  Why,  Chattie,  you  aren't  half  a  one !  "  Sir  John  laughed. 

"  Well,  the  toad  makes  up  for  me  ;  he  was  the  size  of  two ! " 

And  Chattie  began  a  rapid  ascent. 

The  others  followed  her  slowly  and  in  silence. 

Sir  John  made  no  offer  of  assistance  to  Ulrica  ;  he  simply  drew  her  hard 
through  his  arm  in  a  masterful  kind  of  way  which  brought  a  heavenly  sense 
of  delight  to  himself,  and  a  strange  feeling  of  happiness  to  her,  so  new  and 
so  vague  she  could  not  define  it  properly. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  they  paused,  and  Ulrica,  slipping  her  hand  from 
his  arm,  plucked  a  tiny  green  leaf  from  a  tree  near. 

Chattie  had  walked  on. 

"  To  remind  me  of  my  visit  to  the  well,"  Ulrica  said  brightly,  meeting 
an  inquiry  in  his  eyes. 

"  Will  you  give  one  to  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

For  answer,  she  placed  it  in  his  outstretched  hand,  and  picked  another 
for  herself. 

Sir  John  took  out  his  pocket-book,  dropped  his  treasure  into  !|ts  inner 
folds,  and  replaced  it ;  then  they  walked  on  silently. 

Connie  looked  up  peevishly  as  they  advanced. 

"  What  a  long  time.you  have  been ! "  she  said  sharply,  annoyed  to  see 
them  alone.  "  Lady  Dunworthy  sent  out  to  say  tea  was  served  in  the  con- 
servatory ages  ago. " 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Ulrica  said,  simply. 

She  moved  on  quickly  to  overtake  Chattie,  while  Sir  John  again  offered 
himself  as  a  portable  walking-stick,  and  by  slow  degrees  wooed  Miss  Wren 
into  a  good  temper. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

JTJHREE  days  later  Connie  departed  from  Bathurst  Hall  for  Dunworthy 

1      Castle,  accompanied  by  vher  maid  and  two  enormous  boxes,   as  if 

bound  for  a  long  sea  voyage  rather  than  a  short  visit  to  a  country  house.  ^ 

Chattie  executed  a  pas  de  seul  on  the  grass  as  the  carriage  rolled  away, 
and  Ulrica  could  not  repress  a  sigh  of  relief.  She  tried  in  vain  to  become 
friendly  with  Connie.  The  two  girls  had  not  a  single  thought  in  common. 

She  was  growing  so  happy  at  Bathurst.  Never  before  in  her  young  life 
had  she  tasted  the  sweetness  of  home  and  warm  affection  such  as  was  lav- 
ished on  her  now.  Her  anxiety  about  Sam,  too,  was  decreased  by  another 
letter  frt>m  him,  telling  her  he  hoped,  before  long,  to  travel  to  England  and 
see  her. 

He  enclosed  a  draft  on  a  bank  for  an  amount  which  Ulrica  considered 
enormous. 

The  advent  of  this  little  bit  of  paper  brought  her  mind  from  the  present 
to  the  future.  It  would  be  the  last  remittance  she  would  receive ;  and,  as 
yet,  she  had  made  no  plans. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  59 

It  was  pain  to  think  of  leaving  all  her  new-found  friends  and  happiness; 
but  it  had  to  be  faced. 

Inherent  pride  determined  she  must  begin  to  form  some  arrangements 
for  her  independence,  and  the  sooner  it  was  done  the  better. 

Unconsciously  Ulrica  looked  upon  Guy  in  the  light  of  a  guardian  and 
adviser,  and,  after  reading  Sam's  letter  through  carefully,  she  resolved  not 
to  wait  until  her  old  friend  was  better,  but  to  go  at  once  to  Guy,  and  have 
a  long  conversation  with  him. 

She  had  such  vague  ideas  of  money.  Her  purse  had  always  been  liberally 
filled,  and  her  wants  more  than  supplied.  Even  in  the  feminine  delight  of 
dresses  she  was  unversed,  as  Sam  had  placed  the  furnishing  of  her  wardrobe 
in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  first-class  Parisian  modistes,  and  Ulrica  had 
received  fresh  relays  of  garments  without  a  single  thought  to  their  cost  or 
their  design. 

Chattie  finished  her  dance  of  triumph  at  Connie's  absence,  then  fled  after 
Ulrica,  who  was  mounting  the  stairs  slowly. 

"  What  shall  we  do?  "  she  asked.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  were  a  school-girl,  and 
to-day  was  the  annual  wayze-goose,  or  bean-feast,  or  whatever  they 
call  it." 

"  Your  days  appear  to  be  composed  of  wayze-geese,"  remarked  Basil, 
lazily,  looking  down  on  their  approaching  heads  from  the  corridor.  "  My 
goodness,  Chattie!"  he  continued,  "what  have  you  been  doing?  You 
are  a  perfect  scar  let -runner ! " 

"  Celebrating  my  sister's  departure.  I  say,  Basil,  aren't  you  glad  she  is 
gone  — honor  bright?  " 

Basil  caught  Ulrica's  eye  for  a  moment. 

"  Well,  I  am  rather,"  he  returned,  laughing.  "  You  see  Connie  has  such 
a  lot  of  pride.  She  looks  down  on  us. " 

"  She  has  other  fish  to  fry,  my  dear,"  replied  Chattie,  wisely.  "  Ulrica, 
get  on  your  hat  and  come  out,  I  won't  walk  you  far." 

"  No;  I  must  find  Uncle  Guy.     I  want  to  talk  to  him." 

"  Oh,  bother  business !  you  can  do  that  another  time.  Look  how  lovely 
it  is  —  you  can't  refuse." 

"  Please  do  come,"  said  Basil,  with  a  languishing  look  in  his  handsome 
eyes. 

Ulrica  laughed. 

"  Very  well,  then;  but  mind,  Chattie,  if  I  play  this  morning  I  must  work 
this  afternoon." 

"  I  will  bring  your  hat  in  a  jiffy, "  cried  Chattie,  jumping  up  the  stairs 
two  at  a  time,  and  speedily  disappearing. 

"  I  expect  we  shall  have  a  jolly  time,  now  Chattie  has  got  rid  of  Con- 
nie," remarked  Basil,  as  he  swung  himself  onto  the  balustrades,  "sol 
give  you  fair  warning. " 

"  I  don't  mind  how  much  fun  we  have;  it  is  all  new  to  me,  remember.  Here 
is  Chattie  back  again!  Why,  Chattie,  you  must  have  flown." 

"  So  I  did  —  on  the  wings  of  love!  Here  you  are  Ulrica,"  handing  over 
the  broad-brimmed  hat;  "  and  now,  where  shall  we  go?" 

"  Why  not  stay  in  the  grounds?  it  is  so  hot,  Chattie." 

"  You  are  so  lazy,  you  mean,"  she  retorted  to  Basil. 

'  Well,  let  us  make  a  start  anyhow,"  declared  Ulrica,  and  she  set  an 
example. 

As  they  were  scampering  through  the  hall,  Guy  opened  his  study  door. 

"  Ulrica!    Come  here;  I  want  you!  " 


60  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

Ulrica  stopped  at  once,  but  Chattie  interposed. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Guy,  we  are  just  going  out;  don't  keep  her.     Ulrica ! " 

But  Ulrica  had  already  slipped  off  her  hat. 

"  You  must  go  without  me,  Chattie, "  she  said  decidedly. 

Guy  had  gone  into  the  study  again  and  she  followed. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  stop  your  walk,  Ulrica. " 

"  It  does  not  matter  ;  we  were  only  going  for  a  saunter ;"  she  threw  her 
hat  down  on  a  chair  and  pulled  another  up  to  the  table  ;  "  and  I  wanted  to 
see  you.  But  are  you  not  well,  Uncle  Guy  ?  " 

"  Well  ?  "  he  repeated,  not  meeting  her  glance.  "  Yes,  Ulrica ;  quite 
well.  Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  You  look  so  worn  and  tired ;  you  have  been  working  too  hard  in  this 
hot  weather  ;  it  has  upset  you. " 

Guy  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow  a  little  languidly.  He  was  indeed 
looking  both  worn  and  ill ;  there  was  a  troubled  expression  in  his  eyes. 

"  There  has  been  a  lot  of  sickness  in  the  town,  and  they  must  be 
attended  to,  poor  things ! "  Guy  said  slowly. 

Ulrica  nodded  her  head  and  looked  at  him  wistfully ;  she  knew  what 
that  attention  meant. 

"  Ulrica, "  Guy  said  after  a  slight  pause,  "I  want  to  speak  to  you  very 
particularly.  You  must  look  upon  me  at  this  moment  in  the  light  of  a 
guardian  —  not  a  tender,  loving  one  like  Sam  Loudon,  but  a  harsh  ogre  of 
the  old  type."  He  smiled  faintly  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  do,"  answered  Ulrica  laughingly;  "  I  do  indeed,  Uncle  Guy.  Do  you 
want  to  scold  me  ?  Have  I  been  naughty  ?  " 

Guy  turned  his  eyes  steadily  from  her  laughing,  lovely  face. 

"  Not  naughty — only  foolish,"  he  said.  "I  have  just  heard  that  you 
have  promised  five  hundred  pounds  to  the  hospital  subscription. " 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  Ulrica  mischievously. 

"  But  it  is  not  well,"  Guy  replied  ;  "  the  draft  Sam  sent  you  I  know  is 
large,  but  remember  it  is  the  last. " 

"  I  know  that. " 

"  Then  don't  you  see  how  impossible " 

"  Oh,  I  have  promised,  and  I  must  keep  my  promise.  I  shall  have  lots 
left  for  myself  even  then. " 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  allow  it." 

"  Oh  yes !  you  will.     Dear,  darling  Uncle  Guy,  you  will. "     . 

Ulrica  crept  round  and  nestled  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

Guy  sat  as  in  a  trance  ;  his  lips  were  touching  the  hands  of  the  woman 
he  loved  better  than  all  the  world.  His  heart  was  burning  with  the  flood 
of  passionate  emotion  that  filled  it ;  yet  he  sat  silent  and  still,  for  hope 
was  dead  within  him. 

He  knew  Ulrica  would  never  love  him  —  he  was  too  old,  too  quiet,  too 
grave,  he  told  himself  again  and  again. 

His  work  lay  before  him  —  to  pluck  out  the  image  of  this  girl  from  his 
breast,  and  cheerfully  witness  her  giveilHo  another. 

Ulrica,  bending  over  him,  let  her  eyes  wander  to  the  writing-table  — 
they  rested  on  a  letter. 

"  Uncle  Guy,  what  is  that  ?  "  she  asked  hurriedly. 

Guy  looked  round,  and  then  tried  to  cover  up  the  letter. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said  ;  "  nothing." 

Ulrica  simply  drew  the  letter  away. 

"  A  dressmaker's  bill.     What  have  you  to  do  with  such  a  thing  !    For 


HER    FATAL   SIN.  6t 

me,  too!  Great  Heavens!  £483  us.  4d.  Oh,"  and  Ulrica  sat  down  sud- 
denly ;  "  how  awful ! " 

"  It  is  for  a  whole  year,"  hurriedly  said  Guy.  "  Mrs.  Loudon  forwarded 
it  to  me  to-day.  Sam  does  not  know  it." 

Ulrica  sat  gazing  at  the  bill. 

"  And  I  have  spent  all  that  on  myself,  while  hundreds  are  starving !  " 

"  These  things  were  bought  of  the  first  Parisian  modiste,  remember,  and 
it  includes  your  entire  wardrobe,  I  should  say. " 

"  Yes,  it  does.  But,  oh,  Uncle  Guy,  how  terrible !  I  never  knew  about 
it.  Sam  always  paid  every  bill. " 

"  Now,  you  see,  I  was  right  about  the  hospital.  Send  one  hundred 
pounds  —  it  is  ample. " 

"No."  Ulrica  rose.  "  I  shall  not  break  my  promise.  In  the  future  I 
shalf  be  more  careful.  Uncle  Guy,  will  you  do  something  for  me  ?  " 

"  Anything  in  the  world  that  is  possible,  Ulrica;  you  know  that." 

"  Then  find  me  work.  I  don't  care  what  it  is.  I  will  become  a  servant, 
go  into  a  shop,  turn  governess  —  I  could  do  that,  for  I  am  well  educated. 
I  must  work,  you  know ! " 

Ulrica  watched  his  face  in  silence.     It  looked  grave. 

"  You  will  help  me ! " 

His  struggle  ended  —  a  light  had  come. 

"  I  will  speak  to  my  mother  —  she  is  always  wise." 

Ulrica  nodded  her  head. 

"  Yes,  that  will  be  best,  dear,  kind  Uncle  Guy !  How  happy  I  ought  to 
be!  A  few  months  ago  alone  and  friendless,  save  for  Sam  ;  now  I  am  rich 
in  so  many  friends — you  first,  Mrs.  Strong,  Chattie,  Basil " 

"And  Sir  John  Dunworthy,"  added  Guy  suddenly. 

Ulrica's  face  flushed  crimson  ;  she  picked  up  her  hat. 

"I  know  so  —  so  little  of  him,"  she  murmured  confusedly.  "Now 
promise  you  will  speak  to  your  mother  this  very,  very  day.  I  am  anxious 
to  have  all  settled.  And  now  I  must  go;  Chattie  will  grow  impatient. 
Good-bye  for  the  present ! " 

She  kissed  her  hand  and  flitted  away,  leaving  Guy  overwhelmed  with 
pain  and  misery. 

"  She  loves  him ! "  he  said  to  himself ;  "  the  blow  has  come.  Well,  I 
have  been  an  old  fool.  Oh,  God,  give  me  strength  to  harden  my  heart  and 
grudge  them  not  one  moment  of  their  happiness." 

He  rose  and  paced  the  floor  for  a  second  or  two. 

"  And  now  I  must  speak  to  my  mother.  Ulrica  must  not  —  cannot  go 
into  the  world  alone.  My  fair  white  lily,  you  are  too  sweet,  too  good  for 
the  evils,  the  troubles  you  would  meet.  No,  no,  until  your  lover  claims 
you,  your  home  must  be  here  — my  mother  must  be  yours,  her  love  shared 
with  me." 

And  later  on  he  broached  this  to  Mrs.  Strong,  whose  whole  affection  had 
turned  to  the  girl  thus  brought  to  her  house. 

"  She  shall  not  leave  me,  Guy,"  she  said;  "Ulrica  is  too  young,  too 
beautiful  to  live  alone.  She  shall  be  my  daughter  —  Millie's  sister  and 
/ours. " 

Guy  stifled  a  sigh,  but  said  nothing.  His  secret  was  well  buried  then, 
even  from  a  mother's  eyes. 


62  HER   FATAL   SIN. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  7TLRICA,  Ulrica,  where  are  you  ?  " 

U.     "  Here." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  By  the  hammock." 

"  Phew !  What  a  race  I  have  had,  to  be  sure !  Basil,  great  lazy  thing, 
why  could  you  not  shriek  out  ?  "  demanded  Chattie,  sinking  exhausted  on 
the  grass. 

"  You  made  so  much  noise  yourself,  you  would  not  have  heard  me,"  re- 
turned Basil  with  irritating  quietness. 

"  What  is  your  haste,  Chattie  ?  "  asked  Ulrica.. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  all  about  it ! "  cried  Chattie,  breaking  off  her  frown  at 
Basil  to  smile  at  her  friend.  "  Lady  Dunworthy  has  sent  over  ;  there  is  to 
be  a  ball  to-night  —  a  sort  of  impromptu  affair  j  she  wants  us  all  to  come. 
Ah,  I  thought  so ! " 

This  triumphantly  to  Basil,  who  suddenly  threwj'away  his  book  and 
started  into  a  sitting  position. 

"  Balls  are  not  for  little  boys." 

"  Are  you  going  ?  "  rudely  demanded  Basil. 

"  Of  course. " 

"  Heavens !  what  has  Dunworthy  done  !  Only  wear  a  yellow  gown  and 
you  will  look  splendid ;  those  green  goggles  of  yours  will  show  up  so  well. " 

"  Basil,  be  quiet ! "  Ulrica  reproved  with  a  smile. 

"  Let  him  go  on,"  observed  Chattie  in  a  tone  that  gave  hints  of  deep  and 
future  vengeance,  her  green  eyes  flashing  brilliantly ;  "  there  will  come  a 
day  of  reckoning.  I  can  wait.  But,  Ulrica,  isn't  it  jolly!  What  shall 
you  wear  ?  " 

"  I  shall  not  go,"  replied  Ulrica. 

«  Not  go  ?  " 

"  I  cannot,  Chattie ;  this" — touching  her  black  dress  —  "  will  prevent 
me.  You  see,  it  is  impossible. " 

"  Oh,  dear,  then  I  don't  care  to  go  one  single  bit ! "  Chattie  groaned  dis- 
mally. "  I  forgot  all  about  that.  Please  forgive  me. " 

"  And  I  meant  to  ask  you  for  the  first  dance,"  murmured  Basil  with  a 
languishing  sigh. 

"  Dance  it  with  me  instead,"  suggested  Chattie  easily. 

"  Can  you  dance  ?  " 

"  Can  I  dance  ?     Herodotus  isn't  in  it  with  me ! " 

"  Charlotte  !  "  cried  Ulrica,  laughing. 

"Well,  you  know  who  I  mean,"  returned  Chattie  irreverently  —  "the 
young  woman  who  hopped  before  the  king. " 

"I  will  give  you  a  nicely-bound  edition  of  'Mangnall's  Questions'  for 
your  next  birthday,"  Basil  promised  condescendingly. 

"  Yah  ! "  Chattie  retorted  rudely.  "  You  don't  know  yourself  who  it 
was  ;  but,  Ulrica,  to  business  —  what  shall  I  do  ?  Shall  I  go  ?  " 

"  Go  —  of  course  ;  and  I  will  be  your  maid,  if  you  will  let  me.  What 
have  you  got  to  wear  ?  "  t 

"Let  me  see,"  began  Chattie  thoughtfully;  "  that  pink  striped  affair  — 
my  blue.  I  have  nothing  —  absolutely  nothing  ! "  she  ended  dismally. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  63 

"  Will  you  let  me  have  my  own  way  for  once?"  inquired  Ulrica  suddenly. 

"  My  sweet  lamb !  as  if  I  could  refuse  you  anything. " 

"  Then  I  prepare  you  a  gown  for  to-night  —  that  is  settled." 

"Ulrica!" 

"  It  is  settled,"  said  Ulrica  severely. 

Chattie  bent  over  the  chair  and  kissed  the  soft  white  throat,  while  Basil 
threw  bits  of  grass  at  her. 

"  Who  brought  the  message,  Chattie  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  — some  man  or  other.  He  is  in  the  drawing-room,  talk- 
ing to  Mammie  Strong  and  mother. 

"  And  here  he  is  !  "  exlaimed  Basil. 

«  It's  Mott." 

"So  it  is." 

Ulrica  looked  up  carelessly  as  the  new  comer  approached  ;  she  was 
busily  employed  on  a  small  cotton  frock  for  one  of  Mrs.  Strong's  village 
children. 

Three  days  had  passed  since  she  had  given  her  promise  to  remain  as  the 
daughter  of  Guy's  mother,  and  she  was  still  lost  in  the  wonderful  and  new- 
found happiness  of  a  mother  all  to  herself. 

"  How  d'ye  do  ?  "  said  Chattie. 

Basil  got  on  his  legs,  and  Ulrica  slipped  one  of  her  cool,  small  hands 
into  Mr.  Mott's. 

"  We  are  debating  the  all-important  and  never-dull  question  of  dress," 
she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"  For  the  ball  ?  " 

Mr.  Mott  drew  up  a  chair  and  seated  himself;  he  looked  almost  hand- 
some in  his  rough  riding-coat. 

"  Of  course  you  are  coming,  Miss  Messenger  ?  " 

Ulrica  shook  her  head. 

"  No  1 "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  am  afraid  there  will  be  universal  disappoint- 
ment. " 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Ulrica,  with  a  short  laugh.  "I  had  no  idea 
I  was  so  important,  but  here  is  one  who  must  console  all  for  my  absence." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Chattie  is  coming,  then ! "  said  Mr.  Mott.  "  May  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  a  dance  ?  " 

Chattie  blushed  slightly. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  simply.     "  It  is  my  first  big  dance,"  she  added. 

"  Ah,  then  you  must  enjoy  it,"  observed  Mr.  Mott,  his  teeth  gleaming 
as  his  lips  parted  in  a  smile. 

He  had  drawn  out  a  dainty  note-case  and  booked  the  engagement. 

"  Where  is  Jack  ?  "  demanded  Basil. 

"  Gone  with  a  party  of  guns  to  some  distant  spot.  The  ladies,  headed 
by  Miss  Wren,  join  them  at  luncheon. " 

Ulrica  was  gazing  at  her  work  with  a  moody  brow ;  she  was  measuring 
two  sides  of  her  garment. 

"  There  is  something  wrong,"  she  said ;  "  I  must  have  dropped  a  piece." 

"  Basil,  go  and  look  for  it,"  commanded  Chattie. 

"No,  no,  I  will  go." 

Ulrica  rose,  but  the  two  young  people  fled  off  at  one  and  the  same  time, 
leaving  her  alone  with  Mr.  Mott,  just  what  she  did  not  want,  for  in  some 
strange  indefinable  way  Ulrica  was  never  comfortable  in  the  presence  of 
this  man.  A  woman's  intuition  is  seldom  wrong,  and  from  the  very  first 
Ulrica  had  conceived  a  distrust  and  dislike  to  Horace  Mott. 


64  HER    FATAL    SIN. 

At  last  Ulrica  forced  herself  to  speak. 

"  Do  you  stay  long  in  this  part  of  the  world?  "  she  asked. 

Mr.  Mott  woke  from  his  dream. 

"  It  is  uncertain  ;  Lady  Dunworthy  presses  me  for  a  lengthy  visit,  and 
certainly  the  temptation  is  great — pleasant  quarters,  delightful  hosts,  and 
other  things." 

His  eyes  explained  what  this  meant,  but  Ulrica  carefully  oided  looking 
at  him. 

"  Dunworthy  Castle  is  a  lovely  place,"  she  said  instead. 

"  Very,  and  Sir  John  is  worthy  of  it.  We  are  not  exactly  'chums,'  but 
I  know  enough  of  John  Dunworthy  to  testify  to  his  thorough  manliness  and 
goodness. " 

Against  herself  the  pink  flush  dawned  on  Ulrica's  cheeks,  and  grew  and 
grew  till  they  were  like  roses. 

Mr.  Mott  whistled  softly  to  himself. 

"  So  — so,"  was  his  muttered  thought;"  I  was  right  —  love's  young  dream. 

A  pity  to  disturb  it,  but "  The  rest  was  lost  in  a  meaning  smile.  "Yes," 

he  continued  easily,  "  Dunworthy  is  a  downright  good  fellow,  and  I  sincere- 
ly trust  he  will  not  make  a  fool  of  himself,  and  get  landed  by  some  shallow 
society  girl  with  no  brains  beyond  her  dressmaker.  There  are  several  speci- 
mens of  that  sort  at  the  castle  now,  and  all-industrious. " 

Chattie  appeared  at  this  instant,  and  after  a  little  more  conversation, 
Mr.  Mott  departed. 

"  He  is  very  pleasant,  but  I  don't  quite  like  him,"  said  Chattie. 

Except  at  meal-time,  Ulrica  had  not  seen  Guy  since  her  interview  with 
him  in  his  study ;  she  knew  that  he  must  have  learnt  her  consent  to  remain 
at  Bathurst,  but  he  had  said  nothing  to  her,  and  circumstances  had  pre- 
vented her  from  speaking  to  him. 

As  she  was  walking  through  the  hall  to  the  stairs,  after  dinner,  to  put  the 
finishing-touches  to  Chattie's  dress,  mysteriously  hidden  in  her  room,  Guy 
opened  his  study-door. 

"  Your  money  is  here,  Ulrica,"  he  said,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  the  fair  ap- 
parition. "  Shall  I  give  it  to  you  now  ?  " 

"  If  you  like,  Uncle  Guy." 

He  turned  into  his  room  and  Ulrica  followed. 

She  wore  a  long-trailing  gown  of  some  black  transparent  material,  caught 
in  loose  folds  at  the  waist  by  a  broad  black  sash.  Her  magnificent  hair 
was  coiled  in  one  thick  mass  at  the  back  of  her  head. 

Sombre  as  was  her  garb,  she  seemed  to  illuminate  the  room  with  her 
beauty.  Dr.  Strong  put  down  his  cigar  and  went  to  a  table  ;  he  produced 
a  small  packet  of  bank-notes. 

"  I  have  had  another  letter  from  Mrs.  Loudon  to-day,  Ulrica,"  he  ob- 
served, as  he  handed  it  to  her,  "  giving  me  a  detailed  account  of  Sam's 
stewardship — all  the  expenses  of  the  last  year.  You  would  like  to  see  it, 
would  you  not  ?  " 

Ulrica  smiled  and  tossed  the  bank-notes  to  and  fro  in  her  hand. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Uncle  Guy.  I  am  content  to  let  things  be  forgotten. 
Sam  always  did  right. 

She  hesitated  for  an  instant,  then  said: 

"  Your  mother  has  told  you?  " 

"  That  you  have  decided  to  remain?     Yes. " 

"  And  you  are  glad?  "  she  asked,  softly. 

"  I  think  your  decision  is  a  wise  one. " 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  65 

Guy  took  up  his  cigar  again,  and  leaned  back  against  tne  mantel-board. 
Ulrica  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she  put  down  the  papers  she  held,  and 
moved  across  to  him. 

"  Say  you  are  glad  I  am  goin^,  to  stay,"  she  said,  almost  petulantly. 

He  gazed  into  the  violet  depths  of  her  eyes  for  an  instant. 

"  I  am  glad,  dear, "  he  answered. 

"  I  have  wanted  you  to  say  that,"  Ulrica  said,  putting  her  hand  caress- 
ingly on  his  arm;  "  it  makes  me  realize  that  I  have  indeed  a  home  at  last. 
Ah,  how  good  she  is  —  how  sweet !  She  knows  just  the  very  words  to 
touch  one's  heart.  I  hope  I  may  grow  like  her." 

"You  could  have  no  better  wish" — Guy  moved  a  little  beneath  her 
touch  — "  for,  if  angels  do  live  on  earth,  Ulrica,  my  mother  is  one." 

Ulrica  bent  her  head  suddenly,  and  touched  his  hand  with  her  lips,  then 
walked  away  quickly. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  with  forced  lightness,  for  her  heart  was  full; 
"Chattie  is  waiting." 

By  the  aid  of  Mary,  Ulrica  had  succeeded  in  arranging  a  ball-dress, 
worthy,  as  the  maid  said,  of  a  queen. 

Chattie  was  not  allowed  to  look  at  herself  until  everything  was  put  on. 
Then  she  was  led  triumphantly  by  Ulrica  to  the  glass,  and  stared  speech- 
less at  her  own  reflection. 

"  Yes,  I  am  really  pretty,"  she  said,  after  a  long  gaze.  "  Ulrica,  what 
have  you  done  to  me?  I  don't  believe  there  will  be  as  pretty  a  dress  there ! 
Won't  Connie  stare ! " 

Ulrica  drew  on  a  pair  of  long  white  gloves,  then  called  Mrs.  Wren  from 
the  adjoining  room  to  survey  her  handiwork. 

Chattie  flew  to  her  mother. 

"  Mamma,  look  at  me !  Has  not  Ulrica  made  me  beautiful  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wren  uttered  a  little  cry  of  astonishment. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  her  ?  "  she  cried.  "  She  looks  ^erfect. "  A  long 
pause,  then :  "  Quite  ^erfect ! " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

aLRICA  was  out  early  the  next  morning ;   Mrs.  Strong  had  several 
missions  in  the  village,  which  she  willingly  and  gladly  undertook  to 
perform. 

She  had  just  left  the  lodge-gates,  and  was  beginning  to  pace  the  long, 
white,  dusty  lane,  when  she  heard  rapid  sounds  from  behind,  and  turned  to 
see  Sir  John  Dunworthy  ride  up. 

He  dismounted  quickly,  and  came  forward,  leading  his  horse. 

"I  am  in  luck  I  "  he  cried ;  "  another  moment  and  you  would  have  been 
gone!" 

Ulrica  shifted  her  basket  to  shake  hands  with  him,  experiencing  a  decided 
thrill  of  pleasure  at  the  unexpected  meeting. 

"  Dissipation  has  no  ill-effect  on  you,  I  see,"  she  said,  smiling.  "I  have 
left  Chattie  sound  asleep  in  bed,  and  from  the  close-drawn  look  of  Basil's 
blinds,  I  should  say  he  was  similarly  occupied.  They  came  home  very 
late." 

"  I  have  served  a  long  apprenticeship,"  Sir  John  returned ;  "  a  little 
dancing,  more  or  less,  does  not  affect  me.  But  where  are  you  off  to  so 
early,  Miss  Messenger?" 

i 


66  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

"  To  the  village,  on  an  errand  for  Mrs.  Strong,  and  I  must  not  waste  any 
time." 

Sir  John  glanced  down  the  lane. 

"  It  looks  lonely,"  he  said  musingly.  "  Miss  Messenger,  may  I  come 
with  you  ?  " 

"  But  your  horse  ?  "  asked  Ulrica,  feeling  at  once  pleased  and  shy. 

"  I  will  leave  him  in  care  of  Barnes  at  the  lodge  —  only  say  I  may  come." 

"If  you  care  to — yes,"  murmured  the  girl.  Sir  John  led  his  steed  to  the 
lodge,  and  having  disposed  of  it  satisfactorily,  hastened  back  to  Ulrica. 

"  You  don't  ask  me  what  I  have  come  for,"  he  observed,  as  they  turned 
and  began  to  walk  on. 

"  It  is  not  my  business,"  Ulrica  said,  very  demurely. 

"  As  it  happens,  it  just  is,"  was  Sir  John's  reply.  "  I  am  the  bearer  of  an 
invitation  from  my  mother,  Miss  Messenger,  asking  the  pleasure  of  your 
company  at  dinner  this  evening.  We  shall  be  quite  quiet,  only  the  house- 
party.  I  want  Strong,  Chattie,  and  Basil  as  well. " 

"  I  will  come,  certainly. " 

Sir  John's  face  shone  with  satisfaction 

"  Horace  Mott  wanted  to  bring  the  message,  but  I  was  too  sharp  for  him; 
he  got  before  me  yesterday,  for  I  had  fully  intended  riding  over  myself." 

"  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  evening?  "  asked  Ulrica  after  awhile ;  "  but 
how  rude  I  am !  Of  course  you  did." 

"So,  so,"  he  replied;  "it  was  too  hot  altogether  for  dancing.  By  the 
way,  I  must  compliment  you  on  your  skill  as  a  dress-maker. " 

Ulrica  laughed. 

"  Didn't  she  look  pretty?  " 

"  Pretty  is  not  the  word  ;  she  looked  most  fascinating  —  too  fascinating, 
I  think,  for  the  rest  of  the  fair  sex.  I  shall  not  forget  the  look  of  aston- 
ishment on  Connie  Wren's  face  when  her  sister  appeared  on  Basil's  arm  ;" 
and  Sir  John  laughed  heartily. 

"  But  she  was  pleased,  of  course, "  said  Ulrica  quickly. 

"  Oh,  ot  course,"  was  the  answer,  given  dryly ;  and,  as  he  spoke,  the 
young  man  reached  out  his  hand  for  Ulrica's  well-stocked  basket. 

"  Oh,  Sir  John !  "  she  cried,  "  please,  please  do  not !  What  will  people 
say  if  they  see  you  carrying  a  market-basket?  " 

"  What  they  please,"  he  replied,  smiling  down  into  the  violet  eyes  up- 
lifted to  him. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  It  seems  such  an  age  since  we  met,"  he  said  at  last,  breaking  the 
silence. 

"  Only  about  a  week,"  observed  Ulrica.     "  You  have  been  so  busy." 

"  Have  you  missed  me  much?  "  he  asked  eagerly  ;  then,  as  if  ashamed  of 
his  conceit,  he  went  on  hurriedly  :  "  The  fact  is,  you  see,  a  fellow  must  do 
the  polite  to  people  staying  in  his  house.  Confound  them  all !  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Miss  Messenger,  but  they  are  such  bores!  However,  it  pleases  my 
mother,  so " 

"  So  you  submit.     Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  " 

"  No ! "  he  turned  abruptly  to  her. 

"  I  am  going  to  stay  here  always ;  Mrs.  Strong  wants  me  to  call  her 
mother." 

He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I  am  so  glad ! "  was  all  he  said,  but  the  fervor  of  his  glance  spoke 
more,  and  Ulrica  thrilled  with  the  sudden  happiness  that  came  over  her. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  6^ 

u  So  we  shall  be  neighbors, "  she  went  on  quickly  ;  "  we  little  thought 
that  morning  we  met  in  the  rain  at  Spa,  that  such  a  thing  would  ever  be  — 
did  we,  Sir  John  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied,  watching  the  color  come  and  go  in  her  cheeks.  "I 
—  I  wish  we  were  there  now!" 

Ulrica  looked  up. 

«  Why  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Because — oh,  because  it  was  so  pretty  at  Spa,"  he  finished  lamely, 
balancing  the  basket  in  the  air. 

"  It  is  much  prettier  here,"  observed  Ulrica  reprovingly. 

"  Because,  then,  it  was  at  Spa  we  first  met,  at  Spa  you  promised  I  should 
be  your  friend  ;  is  that  not  sufficient  reason  that  I  should  wish  to  be  there 
again  ?  " 

Ulrica's  hands  trembled;  she  was  pale  now,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

Sir  John  suddenly  came  to  a  standstill. ' 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  I  want  to  speak  to  you — I  must  speak 
to  you. " 

"  I  hear  some  one  coming ! "  cried  Ulrica,  turning  suddenly  away  from  his 
impassioned  glance. 

Sir  John  looked  down  the  lane. 

"  So  there  is,  confound  it ! "  he  muttered.  Then  he  came  nearer  the 
girl.  "  Promise  me  that  you  will  give  me  five  minutes  to-night.  I  must 
speak  to  you,  or  I  shall  go  mad. " 

Ulrica  had  turned  almost  white  ;  his  vehemence  frightened  her. 

"  It  is  Uncle  Guy ! "  she  half  whispered.  "  Don't  come  any  farther  j  he 
will  drive  me. " 

"  But  you  promise  ?  "  urged  Sir  John. 

"  Yes,  I  promise,"  faltered  the  girl.  Then  Guy  drew  up  beside  them, 
and  in  another  moment  she  was  whirling  away  from  her  lover,  her  heart 
beating  wildly,  her  hands  trembling. 

Guy  read  the  signs  ;  he  understood  too  well  what  it  meant,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

All  day  Ulrica  lived  as  in  a  dream ;  she  saw  nothing  but  that  pas- 
sionate, pleading  face,  heard  but  that  low,  fervent  voice,  and  she  dreaded, 
yet  longed  for  the  night  when  she  should  meet  Sir  John  again. 

At  last  it  came.  Chattie  would  not  go  to  dinner,  so  it  was  only  Ulrica, 
Dr.  Strong  and  Basil  who  went.  Connie  Wren  received  Ulrica  with  ill- 
concealed  rudeness,  and  inwardly  was  almost  mad  with  rage. 

Sir  John  did  not  go  near  her  ;  he  only  bowed,  and  Ulrica  found  herself 
taken  in  to  dinner  by  Horace  Mott,  who  transgressed  the  laws  of  etiquette 
by  the  earnest  way  in  which  he  gazed  at  her. 

Would, that  dinner  ever  end?  thought  the  girl,  her  hands  and  limbs 
trembling.  And  why  —  oh,  why  did  he  not  come  and  speak  to  her  ? 

She  tried  to  talk  to  Mr.  Mott,  but  in  vain.  All  her  mind  was  on  her 
love,  and  words  failed  her. 

It  was  a  great  relief  when  Lady  Dunworthy  gave  the  signal,  and  the 
ladies  sailed  from  the  room. 

Ulrica  found  herself  deserted  then,  for  Connie  purposely  avoided  her, 
and  Lady  Dunworthy  was  much  occupied. 

After  a  while,  however,  one  of  the  guests,  a  Lady  Grace  Monkhouse, 
drawn  by  the  girl's  sweet  face,  suggested  kindly  that  they  should  stroll 


into  the  grounds,  and  Ulrica  gladly  consented. 
They  walked  up  and  down  till  th< 


.e  gentlemen  appeared, 


68  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

"  At  last  the  tobacco-parliament  is  dissolved.  What  do  you  men  talk 
about  ?  "  laughed  Lady  Grace  as  Sir  John  hurried  up  to  them. 

"  If  you  like,  we  will  invite  you  to  one,"  he  answered  lightly,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  girl's  face. 

"  Well,  now  you  are  come,  you  ought  really  to  take  Miss  Messenger  to 
see  the  moonlight  on  the  slope  over  there.  It  is  lovely  !  You  must  go. 
Miss  Messenger  and  I  have  been  once,  and  were  lost  in  admiration. " 

"  Will  Miss  Messenger  take  me  ?  "  he  asked,  softly. 

Ulrica  lifted  her  heavily-fringed  lids,  and  their  eyes  met. 

Lady  Grace  moved  away  with  a  smile  and  parting  word.  Still  they 
stood  silent  —  a  silence  full  of  the  mute  language  of  love. 

At  last  Sir  John  spoke. 

"  Will  you  come  ?  "  was  all  he  said. 

He  could  not  say  more  then  ;  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  his  heart  intoxi- 
cated with  the  greatness  of  his  happiness. 

Ulrica  turned  at  once.  They  moved  out  of  the  moonlight  into  the 
shadows  of  the  trees,  whose  branches  whispered  and  rustled  in  the  faint 
night-breeze  as  they  passed. 

Ulrica  was  in  a  land  of  enchantment,  absorbed,  bewildered  in  the  mys- 
terious yet  wonderful  atmosphere  that  surrounded  her. 

She  had  followed  at  his  word.  Led  by  this  strange  magic  she  would 
have  followed  him  on  as  involuntarily  as  the  dead  leaf  is  carried  by  the 
passing  wind. 

They  reached  the  spot  on  which  they  had  sat  the  morning -of  her  first 
visit  to  Dunworthy. 

They  stood  silent,  and  looked  over  the  sloping  grounds  bathed  in  Dian's 
silver  light.  The  sound  of  faint  laughter  was  borne  to  their  ears.  Sir 
John  woke  from  his  dream.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  clasped  hers. 

"Ulrica!" 

Slowly  her  head  was  raised,  and  her  eyes  met  his. 

"Iloveyou!  You  know  —  you  have  seen,"  he  cried  passionately  and 
suddenly.  "  From  the  very  first  moment  I  saw  you  my  heart  went  out  to 
you.  I  have  loved  you  all  the  time.  You  —  you  love  me,  Ulrica  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered,  meeting  his  gaze  bravely  now  ;  "  yes,  I  love  you." 

He  drew  her  slight  form  into  his  arms,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers,  while 
the  trees  rustled  gently  overhead,  as  if  they  rejoiced  at  human  happi- 
ness. 

"  My  darling,  my  sweet,  my  fair  love !  "  he  murmured,  holding  her  pas- 
sionately to  his  breast.  "  It  seems  too  good,  too  wonderful  to  be  real.  I 
have  dreamt  of  this,  Ulrica  —  dreamt  that  I  held  you  in  my  arms,  and 
kissed  your  lips  thus,  but  the  dream  vanished,  and  I  was  alone  and  wretched  ; 
and  now — now  it  is  true.  You  are  here.  All  doubt  and  fear  over!  I 
can  scarcely  believe  it.  Tell  me  again  you  love  me — again  and  again  — 
that  I  may  know  I  am  awake,  and  not  dreaming ! " 

Ulrica  carried  his  hand  to  her  lips  ;  then  nestled  her  head  on  his  arm. 

"  I  love  you  —  I  love  you — I  love  you ! "  she  whispered. 

"  And  you  would  not  listen  to  me  this  morning.  How  cruel  you  were, 
Ulrica !  "You  nearly  broke  my  heart. " 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  murmured.  "  I  was  startled  ;  I  did  not  know.  Your 
words  and  face  almost  frightened  me. " 

"  And  now  you  have  no  fear  ?  "  he  smiled.  "  My  own  darling !  Great 
Heavens !  how  have  I  lived  so  long  without  you?  " 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  69 

"  We  must  go,"  said  Ulrica,  hurriedly  awakened  to  the  reality  ;  "  they 
will  miss  us. " 

"  What  if  they  do  ?  What  does  it  matter  ?  To-morrow  all  the  world 
shall  know  our  secret  —  know  that  you,  my  sweet  one,  will  be  my  wife. " 

Ulrica  started  at  the  word,  a  tiny  dark  cloud  passed  over  the  brilliancy 
of  her  joy,  a  doubt  was  in  her  heart. 

"  Your  mother  ?  "  she  whispered. 

John  Dunworthy  took  her  hands  and  carried  them  to  his  lips. 

"  She  will  love  you  for  my  sake, "  he  said,  earnestly.  "  Be  brave,  my 
darling;  remember  how  precious  you  are  to  me. " 

"I  will  forget  all  the  world  when  I  think  of  that,"  whispered  Ulrica; 
then  she  put  her  hand  in  his  and  they  went  slowly  back  through  the  trees. 

As  they  approached  the  lawn  Sir  John  stopped. 

"  Shall  I  speak  to-night,  my  darling,"  he  said  tenderly  ;  "  or  wait  till  to- 
morrow ?  " 

"  To-morrow,"  Ulrica  answered  hurriedly  ;  "to-morrow!" 

Then  they  left  the  shadows  and  mingled  with  the  others  scattered  on  the 
moonlit  lawn. 


CHAPTER  X. 

LADY  DUNWORTHY  was  sitting  in  her  boudoir  the  next  morning. 
The  guests  were  all  arranged  for  the  day,  and  Lady  Dunworthy  was 
free.     The  men  were  bound  for  a  long  shooting  expedition  in  some  neigh- 
boring covers,  and  had  departed  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning.     The 
ladies  dispersed  according  to  their  various  pleasures. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  considerable  surprise  that  Lady  Duuworthy  found 
her  door  opened  and  her  son  appear. 

"  Have  you  not  started,  John  ?  "  she  asked  quickly.  "  I  thought  you 
were  bound  for  a  good  day's  sport  at  Pleydell  Park  ?  " 

"  The  others  have  gone,"  returned  Sir  John,  pulling  up  a  chair  and  seat- 
ing himself  upon  it.  "  I  handed  the  office  of  host  over  to  Mayne,  for  this 
day  only,  greatly  to  his  delight. " 

"  Indeed !  "  exclaimed  Lady  Dunworthy,  frowning  slightly  and  glancing 
at  her  son's  attire  —  an  irreproachable  riding-suit.  "Pray,  may  I  ask 
why  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you  this  morning  and  have  a  chat,"  said  Sir  John, 
blushing  a  little,  and  feeling  that  he  had  a  more  difficult  task  before  him 
than  he  had  imagined. 

Lady  Dun  worthy's  brow  cleared- 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  my  dear,"  she  said  promptly.  "  I  hope  there  is 
nothing  wrong.  I  heard  from  Morgan  last  night ;  he  tells  me  the  rents  are 
very  good  indeed,  and  the  Glencoe  mines  also. " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sir  John,  dreamily — his  thoughts  were  far  away  from  the 
Glencoe  mines. 

"So  you  need  not  trouble  about  that.  Burnet  writes,  also,  very 
cheerfully. " 

Lady  Dunworthy  tapped  her  desk  with  her  ivory-handled  pen  for  several 
seconds,  while  Sir  John  pulled  the  dogskin  glove  he  held  till  it  was  almost 
unfit  for  use. 

"  What  is  it,  John  ?  "  asked  Lady  Dunworthy,  suddenly. 


7<J  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

He  got  off  his  chair,  and  walked  across  the  room  to  the  fireplace,  stand- 
ing, although  there  was  no  fire,  in  the  attitude  so  dear  to  the  masculine 
heart.  Somehow  he  felt  stronger  in  this  position. 

"  It  is  rather  a  surprise,  mother,"  he  said  slowly,  glancing  down  at  his 
feet.  Lady  Dunworthy  put  down  her  pen,  rose,  and  sailed  towards  him 
with  an  inquiring  air. 

"  You  have  often  told  me,  mother,"  continued  Sir  John  with  growing 
confidence,  "  that  —  that  I  ought  to  think  of  marrying.  Well,  I  have  de- 
termined to  take  your  advice." 

Lady  Dunworthy  gave  vent  to  a  little  exclamation.  Then  she  suddenly 
wound  her  arms  round  her  son,  much  to  his  surprise,  and  embraced  him 
warmly. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said  genially — "  so  glad!  Ah,  I  am 
not  so  blind,  after  all.  I  have  seen  it  all  the  while.  Dear  girl,  she  will 
make  you  very  happy,  I  know. " 

"  You  have  seen  it  all  the  while ! "  echoed  Sir  John  in  amazement. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  nodded  Lady  Dunworthy;  "  and  I  am  delighted.  You  have 
my  warmest  sympathy  and  blessing.  She  is  a  girl  after  my  own  heart. " 

"But  you  know  so  little  of  her,"  cried  Sir  John,  still  incredulous  of  his 
hearing,  though  his  face  beamed. 

"  My  dear  John,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing?  Why,  I  have  known 
Constance  Wren  ever  since  she  was  a  baby,  and  therefore " 

"  Constance  Wren ! "  interrupted  Sir  John,  growing  suddenly  pale,  and 
speaking  very  quietly ;  "  did  you  think  she  was  the  woman  I  love?  " 

Lady  Dunworthy's  hands  dropped  from  their  hold  on  her  son's  shoul- 
ders. 

"Of  course  I  thought  so,"  she  replied  sharply;  "  if  Constance  is  not 
your  choice,  may  I  ask  who  is?  " 

"  Ulrica  Messenger,"  said  Sir  John  with  heightened  color,  meeting  his 
mother's  glance  without  flinching. 

She  sank  slowly  into  the  nearest  chair. 

"  This  is  no  trifling  matter,  John,"  she  said  coldly;  "if  you  are  joking, 
please  believe  that  I  do  not  like  it. " 

"  Joking! "  cried  the  young  man;  "joking  when  I  speak  of  her!  Mother, 
you  don't  understand  me!" 

"I  begin  to  think  I  do  not,"  answered  Lady  Dunworthy,  frigidly. 

"Yes;  Ulrica  Messenger  is  the  woman  I  love,"  Sir  John  went  on  reck- 
lessly, pained  beyond  measure  by  his  mother's  coldness;  "  the  woman, 
please  God,  who  will  become  my  wife !  What  have  you  to  say  against 
her  ?  " 

"  A  girl  of  no  birth,  no  antecedents,  no  relations  — nothing;  a  mere  no- 
body," replied  Lady  Dunworthy,  contemptuously. 

"  These  are  no  blots  on  her  fair  name,  no  stains  on  her  pure  nature," 
cried  Sir  John,  hotly.  "You  speak  the  sophistry  of  the  world.  Pshaw! 
I  am  sick  of  such  narrow-minded  prejudices,  mother  !  " 

Lady  Dunworthy  rose  majestically;  the  very  folds  of  her  dress  uttered  a 
mute  protest  to  her  son's  words.  f 

"  Have  you  anything  more  to  say?  "  she  asked,  frigidly. 

"  Nothing,  except  that  Ulrica  Messenger  will  be  my  wife,  and  that  I  shall 
announce  the  fact  to-day. " 

Lady  Dunworthy  turned  away.     Sir  John  took  two  strides  after  her. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "be  just,  be  kind;  she  is  so  young;  so 
very  beautiful  1  I  love  her  so  much ;  you  will  not  condemn  that  love? 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  7 1 

You  will  not  cast  a  shadow  on  its  brightness?  You  will  give  us  your 
blessing?  What  are  birth  and  family  after  all,  if  we  are  happy?  Dearest 
mother,  you  will  be  kind  to  her?  " 

Lady  Dunworthy  met  her  son's  eyes  for  one  minute.  She  drew  herself 
up. 

"You  are  my  son,  John,"  she  said,  with  injured  dignity.  "As  your 
future  wife,  I  will  make  Miss  Messenger  welcome." 

Sir  John  kissed  her  broad  cheek.  His  face  flushed  with  pleasure.  His 
mother's  voice  was  not  cordial,  but  was  perhaps  natural.  The  news  had 
surprised  her;  things  would  be  better  in  a  day  or  two.  And  seizing  his 
hat  and  gloves,  he  departed  in  haste  to  meet  his  love. 

Lady  Dunworthy  stood  motionless  as  Sir  John  disappeared.  She  was 
overwhelmed  with  her  son's  intelligence. 

A  dull,  resentful  feeling  rose  in  her  heart  against  Ulrica. 

She  had  arranged  her  son's  marriage  this  long  time  past. 

Connie  Wren  was  to  be  his  wife.  A  girl  whom  she  knew  so  well,  and 
over  whom  she  would  have  been  able  to  rule  with  all  her  accustomed 
power. 

Nothing  unconventional,  strange  or  disagreeable  about  Connie. 

Now,  all  this  was  upset,  and  by  a  girl  about  whom  she  knew  absolutely 
nothing ;  moreover,  with  that  objectionable  of  all  things,  a  suspicious 
"  city  "  parentage,  whose  very  beauty  was  against  her,  belonging,  as  it  did, 
to  no  particular  family. 

It  was  a  bitter  blow. 

Yes,  she  must  submit,  for  her  son  was  complete  master  of  his  home  and 
estates,  and,  if  he  willed,  she  could  be  regulated  to  her  dower-house 
to-morrow. 

And  Sir  John  was  in  earnest. 

Lady  Dunworthy  had  never  seen  him  so  roused  before  —  had  never  read 
strength  of  purpose  and  determination  so  clearly  expressed  on  his  features 
as  now. 

Too  agitated  to  continue  her  letters,  Lady  Dunworthy  paced  up  and 
down  ;  two  bright  spots  of  color  were  fastened  on  her  cheeks,  her  hands 
were  clasped  restlessly  together. 

A  fire  of  anger  and  resentment  burned  in  her  breast  against  Ulrica,  Guy, 
Bathurst  Hal),  and  fate! 

She  determined  she  would  drive  over  before  nightfall,  and  have  a  long 
conversation  with  Dr.  Strong. 

He  was  the  person  to  be  blamed.  What  right  had  he  to  bring  a  name- 
less girl  into  their  midst  ? 

While  she  was  walking  to  and  fro  and  thinking,  there  came  a  gentle  tap 
at  the  door. 

"  Come  in ! "  she  cried  sharply. 

The  door  opened  and  Connie  appeared,  very  fresh  and  smart  in  a  white 
gown. 

"  Dear  Lady  Dunworthy, "  said  Connie  sweetly,  "  I  have  come  to  chat 
to  you  about  this  cushion.  I  waited  till  I  knew  you  were  free." 

"John  has  just  left  me,"  observed  Lady  Dunworthy  abruptly. 

She  moved  to  her  desk  and  sat  down  again. 

"Perhaps  I  am  troubling  you  now?"  Connj  "'  -  *|ed  with  gentle 
timidity. 

"  No,  my  dear;  you  are  not  troubling  me,"  wal  ^  delivered  with 

a  heavy  sigh. 


72  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"  But  something  is,"  murmured  Connie,  gliding  near.  "  Oh,  let  me 
know,  and  I  will  try  and  comfort  you. " 

"You  cannot,"  replied  Lady  Dunworthy  gloomily.  "  Why  are  you  not 
out,  Connie  ?  " 

"  I  know  you  wanted  this  cushion  finished,  and  I  like  working." 

Lady  Dunworthy  sighed  again.  How  different  life  would  have  looked 
had  he  only  chosen  this  girl ! 

"  Now,  I  know  you  are  worried,"  said  Connie  quickly,  "  and  so  I  will 
not  bother  you  with  any  stupid  questions  about  the  work ;  another  time 
will  do." 

Lady  Dunworthy  threw  down  her  pen. 

"I  am  more  than  worried — I  am  terribly  distressed,  Connie.  John  is 
going  to  be  married. " 

Connie's  hands  closed  over  her  work.  Lady  Dunworthy  was  gazing  out 
of  the  window,  so  did  not  see  her  start. 

"  Yes,"  said  Connie  very  quietly  after  a  pause,  not  moving,  "  to 
whom ! " 

"  To  that  Miss  Messenger!  " 

A  wave  of  color  rushed  over  Connie's  face ;  it  dyed  even  the  small  hands 
that  clinched  the  rich  satin. 

"  I  hope  he  will  be  happy,"  she  said,  uttering  the  platitude  after  another 
pause  very  steadily  ;  "  he  deserves  it.  I  will  come  in  about  the  cushion 
by-and-by.  It " 

"Poor  girl,"  murmured  Lady  Dunworthy,  as  the  door  closed  on  the 
graceful  form ;  "  she  bears  it  welL  Ah,  that  is  where  blood  tells !  " 

She  might  have  modified  that  statement  could  she  have  followed  Connie 
as  she  rushed  madly  to  her  room,  dashed  the  cushion  on  the  floor,  and 
crushed  the  rich  silks  beneath  her  feet. 

To  be  defeated  —  ousted  by  a  girl  whom  no  one  knew  —  who  came  from 
nowhere !  It  was  too  bitter —  it  was  too  much ! 

Connie  paced  up  and  down  her  room,  her  arms  folded  over  her  breast, 
her  lips  pressed  close  together. 

As  much  as  lay  in  her  cold  heart,  she  loved  Sir  John  Dunworthy  —  she 
prized  his  home,  his  name,  his  position ;  for  years,  since  she  could  think  at 
all,  she  had  planned  to  be  his  wife;  and  now  —  now,  on  the  very  brink  of 
success  —  for  Sir  John  had  paid  her  real  attention  (at  least  so  she  had 
chosen  to  think)  before  he  went  abroad  —  the  prize  was  snatched  from  her 
by  this  outcast  —  this  vagrant !  Oh,  it  was  more  than  she  could  bear ! 

She  picked  up  her  garden-hat,  and  went  out  into  the  grounds  ;  it  seemed 
as  though  indoors  the  air  choked  her.  She  made  her  way  to  a  secluded 
spot,  and  gave  way  to  her  angry  thoughts. 

Little  did  she  think  that  she  was  observed,  that  her  gestures  of  annoy- 
ance were  noted  by  an  onlooker. 

From  behind  a  group  of  trees  Horace  Mott  had  seen  Connie  approach, 
and  a  sinister  smile  curled  his  lip. 

"  So,  my  pretty  maiden,  yon  too  have  learned  the  news !  It  has  upset 
your  plans,  no  doubt.  This  is  not  what  you  have  waited  for  so  long.  Be 
of  good  cheer  ;  their  dream  will  be  brief.  I  hold  you  in  contempt,  you  poor, 
paltry,  selfish  thing !  Nevertheless  I  am  going  to  work  on  your  side.  You 
hate  your  rival.  I  hate  mine  —  John  Dunworthy ! "  His  brow  grew  dark. 
"  I  have  a  long  score  of  hatred  to  pay  him,  and  would  have  done  it  in  any 
case,  but  doubly  so  now  when  love  and  jealousy  fan  the  flame.  Love  — 
love !  I  " —  he  laughed  softly,  and  turned  away  down  the  path-  to  the  old 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  73 

well—  "  I,  who  thought  my  heart  dead,  barren,  to  be  filled  with  a  wild  pas- 
sion of  love  for  this  cream-white,  violet-eyed  girl,  who  shrinks  from  me 
and  gives  her  caresses  to  him.  Well — well,  all  in  good  timel  I  can  wait, 
for  I  hold  the  trump-card. " 

He  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  path  as  he  uttered  these  words  aloud. 

He  stopped,  looked  round,  and  gave  a  low  whistle. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  branches  were  parted,  and  a  tall  man,  half  hidden 
in  the  folds  of  a  large  cloak,  crept  out  and  joined  him. 

Their  words  were  few  and  swift,  but  as  they  were  exchanged,  a  look  of 
satisfaction,  even  triumph,  spread  on  Horace  Mott's  face,  and  lingered 
there. 
********** 

Meanwhile,  flushed  with  joy,  Sir  John  had  mounted  his  horse  and  ridden 
fleetly  to  Bathurst  Hall. 

Chattie  met  him  in  the  doorway.     He  asked  hurriedly  for  Ulrica. 

"  I  believe  you  and  Ulrica  have  some  plot  on  hand,"  she  said  aggrievedly. 

Sir  John  laughed. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  a  plot  ending  in  marriage  ?  " 

Chattie  uttered  a  shriek,  then  shook  Sir  John  wildly  by  the  hand,  and 
rushed  off  to  the  library,  where  Ulrica  was  seated,  writing  to  Sam. 

"  Johnnie  Jack  is  out  on  the  lawn.  He  wants  you  —  he  told  me  himself 
— so  you  had  better  go,"  she  cried  breathlessly. 

Ulrica  rose  at  once,  the  gleam  of  irrepressible  gladness  lighting  up  her 
glorious  orbs,  while  Chattie  fled  up-stairs  to  tell  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Strong 
the  news. 

Sir  John  rose  from  the  low  garden-chair  as  Ulrica  approached  him. 
Without  a  word  he  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm,  and  they  wandered 
slowly  down  to  the  stream  that  meandered  through  the  bottom  of  the 
grounds.  Here  they  were  alone  save  for  the  babbling  music  of  the  brook 
and  the  birds'  notes  ;  there  was  not  a  sound  to  break  their  solitude. 

Sir  John  drew  the  slender  form  to  his  breast,  bent  his  head,  and  kissed 
the  sweet  trembling  lips. 

"  My  own ! "  he  said  tenderly  ;  my  very  —  very  own ! ',' 

Ulrica  looked  up  at  him  ;  there  was  a  mute  inquiry  in  her  eyes. 

"  Sweet,  I  have  spoken,"  he  answered,  reading  her  wish.  "  My  mother 
will  welcome  you  as  a  daughter. " 

Ulrica  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Ah,  now  I  am  content,"  she  whispered,  gently.  "  I  was  afraid  your 
mother  might  not  like  me,  and  I  did  not  want  to  be  the  cause  of  a  quarrel 
between  you  two. " 

"  And  you  are  happy  now?  " 

"Happy?  Too ,— too  happy!"  she  murmured,  resting  her  head  on  his 
shoulder.  "  Will  it  last,  dear?  " 

"A  lifetime,  I  trust,"  he  said  solemnly. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  "  he  asked  at  last,  breaking  the  silence. 

"  That  God  is  good ! "  she  answered  slowly.  "  It  is  this  that  I  have  pined 
for  all  my  life  —  to  be  loved,  to  feel  there  is  some  one  who  cares  for  me 
through  all  time  —  that  I  am  dear  to  some  heart.  Ah,  how  gloriously 
great  it  seems !  What  can  I  do  to  show  my  gratitude?  " 

"  It  is  your  due,  my  darling, "  he  said  tenderly  ;  "  you  are  so  sweet  and 
good  an  angel. " 

Ulrica  shook  her  head  with  a  smile. 


74  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

"A  very  human  angel,"  she  said.  Then  suddenly  hiding  her  face  on 
his  coat,  she  whispered  :  "  But  I  love  you  —  I  love  you,  my  darling ! " 

Then  they  strolled  slowly  on  the  stream's  brink,  weaving  in  its  murmurs 
with  their  golden  dream,  and  breathing  their  tender  vows  of  eternal  con- 
stancy and  love. 

The  morning  slipped  away  before  they  were  half  told,  and  the  luncheon- 
gong  broke  harshly  on  the  delicate  train  of  their  thoughts. 

"  One  o'clock!  "  cried  Ulrica  with  a  start.  "I  had  no  idea  it  was  so 
late.  We  have  been  out  here  an  hour. " 

Sir  John  laughed  as  he  kissed  her  again,  and  they  turned  to  the  house. 

"  Now,  we  must  tell  our  news,"  he  said  gaily. 

Ulrica's  color  rose. 

"  Must  we  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  going  to  keep  you  in  a  corner  all  to  myself?  I 
expect  by  this  time  it  is  pretty  well  known.  Chattie  will  have  told 
everybody. " 

This  statement  was  verified,  for  as  they  entered  the  hall  they  met  Mrs. 
Strong  on  her  way  to  the  luncheon. 

She  stopped  and  glanced  at  the  two  happy  faces  with  the  great  secret 
written  so  plainly  on  their  features. 

"  My  daughter  will  not  stay  with  me  long,"  she  whispered,  as  she  kissed 
Ulrica  tenderly.  "  God  bless  you  both !  " 

Guy  strode  in  through  the  wide  porch  at  this  moment,  and  he  took  in 
the  truth  at  a  glance. 

He  grasped  Sir  John's  hand  warmly  and  silently,  then  turned  to  Ulrica. 

"  What  can  I  wish  little  Rica  that  she  will  not  have  ?  "  he  said  lightly, 
though  his  face  was  very  pale.  "  May  every  earthly  happiness  be  yours, 
dear ! " 

Ulrica  followed  her  lover  into  the  dining-room  with  something  like  a  mist 
of  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  Chattie's  exuberant  spirits  and  merry  words  soon 
banished  emotion,  and  they  were  all  laughing  and  gossiping  when  a  foot- 
man approached  Sir  John,  and  spoke  to  him  in  low  tones. 

"  Good  Heavens ! "  he  exclaimed,  rising  to  his  feet.  Ulrica  looked  up  in 
affright,  and  Chattie  started.  "  There  has  been  a  gun-accident,"  explained 
Sir  John,  "  and  Mott  is  badly  hurt.  My  mother  has  sent  for  me.  Will 
you  ride  back  with  me,  Strong  ?  " 

"  Willingly,"  answered  Guy,  rising  at  once. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  darling,"  whispered  Sir  John  to  Ulrica,  who  had 
turned  pale  ;  "  these  sort  of  things  are  always  exaggerated.  I  expect  it  is 
only  a  scratch.  1  will  return  at  once  and  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"  If  your  mother  wants  you,  stay,"  she  answered;  "  you  must  not  neglect 
your  duties.  I  know  you  would  come  if  you  could,  and  I  am  very  happy. '.' 

"  This  will  prevent  my  mother  coming  to  you  this  afternoon,  too,"  he 
said  as  they  stood  in  the  hall,  while  Dr.  Strong  got  together  one  or  two 
things  he  might  want.  "  You  will  not  mind,  my  darling?  " 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried  quickly;  "  I  do  not  expect  it.     Do  not  speak  of  it." 

Guy  came  out  of  his  room,  and  Ulrica  stood  waving  her  hand  to  her 
lover  till  he  had  vanished  from  sight. 

The  two  men  rode  on  in  silence;  Guy  could  not  bring  himself  to  talk. 

The  light  of  happiness  on  the  other's  face  was  absolute  torture  to 
ii'iDw. 

Fortunately  Sir  John  was  so  wrapped  in  his  thoughts,  he  did  not  notion 
the  grave,  almost  taciturn  manner  of  his  frien£ 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  75 

Not  till  they  were  approaching  Dunworthy  Castle  did  Guy  Strong  speak; 
then  he  said  suddenly: 

"  Dunworthy,  you  have  spoken  to  your  mother?  " 

Sir  John  started  from  his  dreams. 

"  Yes, "  he  replied  quickly. 

"  And  she  does  not  object?  " 

"No."  • 

Guy  noticed  the  tiny  frown  on  the  handsome  face. 

"  Of  course,  she  was  surprised,"  went  on  Sir  John;  "but  that  will  wear 
off.  If  she  talks  to  you,  Strong,  remember  I  am  firm.  Nothing  will  move 
me.  I  love  Ulrica.  She  shall  be  my  wife?  ' 

"I  will  remember." 

A  slight  pause,  and  then  Guy  said,  speaking  slowly: 

"  I  hope  there  will  be  no  unpleasantness.  Lady  Dunworthy  is  ambitious 
and  proud,  and  Ulrica  is " 

"  My  equal ! "  said  Sir  John  promptly. 

Dr.  Strong  did  not  answer. 

He  was  beset  by  doubts  and  fears.  Ought  he  not  to  tell  this  man  the 
truth  of  Ulrica's  parentage  ?  Was  it  right  to  let  her  go  to  his  home,  per- 
haps some  day  to  be  despised  for  her  father's  sake? 

He  was  terribly  distressed — this  fact  from  him  might  turn  the  tide,  break 
off  the  match,  and  tear  their  love-dream  asunder. 

No,  he  could  not  do  it,  though  he  loved  her  so  much  —  though  to  call 
her  wife  would  be  to  him  the  greatest  of  all  joys — by  that  very  love  he 
could  not  do  it. 

No  one  knew  but  himself — the  secret  was  safe;  and  once  Lady  Dun- 
worthy,  she  could  defy  the  world's  venemous  jealousy  and  cruel  tongue. 

"  I  knocked  all  that  on  the  head  this  morning, "  declared  Sir  John,  break- 
ing in  on  his  thoughts.  "  My  mother  holds  the  stereotyped  views;  unless 
one's  ancestors  came  over  with  the  Conqueror,  one  is  nobody;  but  I  have 
very  different  ideas.  Let  Ulrica's  birth  be  of  the  lowest,  I  love  her— she 
will  be  my  wife ! " 

The  castle  was  in  confusion  when  they  arrived. 

Lady  Dunworthy  welcomed  Dr.  Strong  warmly,  and  conducted  him  her- 
self to  the  wounded  man. 

Sir  John  found,  after  all,  his  services  were  not  urgently  required,  and 
when  he  had  paid  a  visit  to  Horace  Mott,  who  still  remained  insensible,  he 
strode  along  the  corridor  to  his  "  den, "  feeling  extremely  wrathful  with  his 
mother  for  bringing  him  away  from  Ulrica  so  needlessly. 

He  gave  orders  to  have  the  dog-cart  prepared;  he  would  drive  back  with- 
out delay,  and  was  opening  the  door  of  his  room  when  his  eye  caught  a 
figure  coming  towards  him. 

It  was  Connie  —  a  large  garden  hat  thrown  over  her  flaxen  curls,  a 
basket  on  her  arm,  and  large  gauntlet  gloves  covering  her  white  hands. 

"  Where  are  you  off  to?  "  he  asked  with  a  smile. 

"  To  get  some  grapes  for  poor  Mr.  Mott.  Is  it  not  dreadful?  "  with  a 
graceful  shudder. 

"  Very,"  replied  Sir  John;  "  but  you  must  not  be  alarmed;  he  will  soon 
be  all  right.  Strong  is  with  him.  You  are  looking  quite  pale,  Miss 
Wren." 

Connie  smiled  faintly;  she  bent  her  head  over  her  basket. 

"  I  have  to  congratulate  you,  Sir  John,"  she  said  slowly.  "  I  wish  you 
every  happiness." 


76  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  the  young  man;  then  he  stood  aside,  and  Con- 
nie fluttered  on. 

Sir  John  strode  into  the  room  with  an  easy  look  on  his  face. 

"  Whatever  my  mother  may  have  thought,"  was  his  mental  assurance  as 
he  sat  down  and  wrote  an  order  to  his  jeweller  in  London  to  send  down 
some  rings  at  once,  "  I  am  positive  Connie  had  no  more  idea  of  marrying 
me  than  she  had  of  marrying  that  —  that  doormat." 

Wherein  he  showed  very  clearly  that  the  minds  of  the  male  beings  are 
not  endowed  with  that  amount  of  perspicuity  which  dwells  is.  the  bosom  of 
the  gentler  sex. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MR.    MOTT'S  accident  did  not  prove  very  serious,  but  it  served  as  an 
excuse  to  L  ady  Dunworthy  to  postpone  her  visit  to  Ulrica. 

Aweek  went  by,  and  then  Sir  John  felt  he  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
The  slight  to  Ulrica  was  galling  to  him,  so  he  went  straight  to  his  mother, 
and  spoke  plainly  to  her,  with  the  result  that  Lady  Dunworthy  ordered  her 
barouche,  and  drove  over  to  Bathurst  Hall. 

Sir  John  was  delighted  beyond  measure  as  he  beheld  his  mother  and  his 
promised  wife  driving  back  together;  man-like,  he  did  not  think  of  what 
lay  beneath  their  calm  exterior. 

Guy  had  not  seen  Lady  Dunworthy;  he  was  gone  away. 

The  misery,  the  hopelessness  of  his  heart  had  Urged  him  to  do  this. 

Struggle  as  he  might,  he  could  not  root  out  his  love  for  Ulrica,  and  so 
he  determined  to  leave  his  home  for  a  while. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  set  aside  what  he  considered  his  duty,  but  it 
was  impossible  to  him  to  tell  Sir  John  what  George  Messenger  had  been. 

He  knew  so  well  what  her  love  was  to  Ulrica,  and,  were  the  marriage  to 
be  broken  off,  he  dared  not  think  about  her. 

Those  were  curious  days  for  Ulrica  at  Dunworthy  Castle,  radiantly 
happy  at  one  moment,  pained  and  wounded  the  next. 

Connie  still  lingered,  though  Chattie  and  her  mother  had  gone  home 
long  ago. 

She  had  one  determination  hi  her  heart;  that  was,  to  yet  wrest  Sir  John 
from  Ulrica's  side. 

Though  things  did  not  look  very  hopeful,  she  did  not  despair. 

One  afternoon,  Ulrica,  obeying  a  sign  from  her  lover,  went  to  get  a  wrap 
and  hat,  and  go  forth  into  the  grounds  for  a  stroll. 

She  met  Connie  Wren  on  the  staircase. 

"  How  strong  you  must  be,  Miss  Messenger,  really!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Wren,  languidly;  "  you  go  out  in  all  weathers ! " 

"  Yes,  I  am  strong,"  answered  Ulrica,  brightly. 

She  always  tried  not  to  see  Connie's  disagreeable  ways. 

"  Oh,  ah,  yes,"  drawled  Connie.     "  Our  family  are  so  delicate ! " 

"  I  have  no  family  to  boast  of,"  laughed  Ulrica,  "  which  is  a  good  thing, 
I  think ! " 

Connie  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  went  on  her  way,  while  Ulrica  ran 
quickly  down  to  her  lover. 

She  put  on  her  brightest  smites  fa*  him,  and  he  drew  her  hand  through 
'  \s  arm  with  a  tender  touch. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  77 

"  Ulrica,  darling,  I  have  asked  you  to  come  out  with  me  this  afternoon 
for  one  purpose;  can  you  guess  what  it  is?  he  said,  after  a  while. 

"  No, "  whispered  Ulrica,  softly,  though  her  face  grew  rosy. 

"  Try,"  urged  Sir  John,  mischievously,  bending  to  look  into  her  eyes. 

She  shook  her  head  in  gentle  confusion. 

"  Well,  this  is  it. " 

They  had  walked  to  their  favorite  corner  by  now,  and  Sir  John  made  a 
comfortable  seat  for  Ulrica,  and  stood  against  a  tree  looking  down  at 
her. 

"  I  want  my  darling  to  promise  me  something, "  he  said,  tenderly. 

"  Anything,"  cried  Ulrica,  looking  up — "  that  is,  anything  I  can,  Jack." 

"  I  safely  assure  you  you  can  perform  this  promise  on  your  own 
account."  He  changed  his  tone  suddenly.  "My  darling  —  my  own,  I 
want  you  all  to  myself.  I  want  you  for  my  wife,  my  treasure ;  promise 
me,  Ulrica,  that  our  marriage  shall  be  before  Christmas. " 

"  So  soon!"  she  said  in  low  startled  tones. 

"  Are  you  afraid  to  come  to  me,  dear  ?  " 

"  Afraid  !  "  she  rose  and  put  her  arms  around  him.  "  Oh,  Jack  — Jack, 
my  darling,  the  one  thing  on  earth  I  love —  I  adore !  Afraid  of  you !  No 
—  no!  Listen — hold  me  tight,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am  frightened 
of.  I  am  afraid  my  happiness  is  too  great.  I  have  a  feeling  here,"  and 
she  struck  her  heart  —  "here,  that  it  will  end  soon — that  it  will  vanish 
from  me  like  the  beautiful  dream  it  is,  and  then,  Jack  —  my  life  will 
end ! " 

He  clasped  her  close  in  his  arms. 

"My  darling,  don't  talk  like  this!"  he  cried  passionately.  "You  are 
tired  to-day  —  nervous,  worried,  but  believe  me,  my  own,  as  far  as  one 
can  say  anything  is  certain  in  human  life,  our  future  happiness  will  be  cer- 
tain. Why,  my  dearest,  what  ails  you  ?  You  are  trembling  like  a  leaf. 
Don't  you  know  how  much  I  love  you  ?  Don't  you  believe  in  me,  trust  hi 
me,  know  me,  Ulrica  ?  " 

"  Aye,  I  do,  indeed,"  she  whispered  faintly.  "  You  are  too  good  for  me. 
Think,  Jack,  what  you  have  done  for  me  —  given  me  sunshine  —  golden, 
glorious  sunshine — that  makes  life  worth  living.  It  is  not  doubt  of  you  ; 
it  is  a  fear — a  whisper  in  the  trees  —  a  sensation  that  comes  over  me  at 
night  —  that  this  will  not  last.  Don't  laugh  at  me,  Jack;  I  cannot  help 
it." 

"  But  I  shall  laugh  at  you,  you  simple,  precious  little  dreamer !  There, 
put  down  your  head,  and  forget  these  foolish  fears.  God  willing,  Ulrica, 
you  shall  have  no  shadows  or  fears  henceforth,  my  darling  !  " 

Even  as  he  spoke  Ulrica  started  in  his  arms.  Her  quick  ear  had  caught 
the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps ;  and  she  drew  herself  apart  from  Sir 
John,  as  the  dead  leaves  rustled  clearer  and  a  man  came  towards  them. 

It  was  Horace  Mott. 

"  Pardon  my  intrusion,"  he  said  pleasantly,  lifting  his  hat ;  "but  Lady 
Dunworthy  begged  me  to  come  and  find  you,  Dunworthy.  It  appears  that 
some  old  family  lawyer  has  come  down." 

"  The  very  man  I  want  to  see,"  exclaimed  Sir  John.  "  Are  you  going 
back  to  the  house,  Mott  ?  Yes  ?  Then  will  you  kindly  tell  my  mother  I 
am  hastening  to  her  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  smiled  Mr.  Mott,  and  he  turned  away  at  once. 

Ulrica  gave  a  shiver  as  he  disappeared. 

"  How  I  dislike  that  man  I "  she  murmured  involuntarily. 


78  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"  Well,  now,  I  think  I  have  grown  to  like  him  better.  He  is  very 
pleasant.  Do  you  know,  Ulrica  darling,  I  think  it  would  gratify  my 
mother  if  you  were  to  speak  to  him  a  little  more  than  you  do  now." 

"Then  I  will,  certainly,"  the  girl  answered;  though  her  face  looked 
pained.  "  But  run  away  now,  Jack  ;  I  am  going  down  to  the  old  well — 
you  will  find  me  there. " 

"  Isn't  that  rather  dreary,  all  by  your  little  self?  "  inquired  Sir  John. 

Ulrica  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  am  not  nervous,  and  your  castle  is  a  perfect  fraud  —  it  has  no 
ghosts!" 

He  laughed,  and  bent  and  kissed  her  tenderly  ;  then  turned  on  his  "heel 
and  strode  away. 

Ulrica  stood  watching  him  till  he  was  lost  to  sight ;  then,  with  a  resolute 
shake  of  her  shoulder,  to  dispel  the  sensation  of  coming  evil  that  hung  over 
her,  she  began  to  walk  slowly  down  the  path  to  the  old  well. 

She  soon  reached  it,  and  seated  herself  on  the  low  wall  with  a  sigh  of 
fatigue.  Her  thoughts  flew  to  the  many  times  she  had  come  here  with 
Chattie  and  Basil,  and  she  smiled  in  fancy  as  she  recalled  their  merry, 
quaint  sayings  ;  then  her  mind  went  back  to  the  past,  and  lingered  there. 

Somehow  she  could  not  drag  herself  from  the  memory  of  those  bygone 
lonely  years  of  wandering,  and  her  face  grew  grave  and  sad. 

As  she  sat  thus,  a  slight  noise  caused  her  to  look  round,  and,  with  a  re- 
pressed scream,  she  started  to  her  feet;  for  just  before  her  stood  a  man 
she  hoped  never  to  see  again  —  the  priest,  Father  Lawrence. 

She  turned  pale  and  her  limbs  trembled ;  one  hand  clung  to  the  post  of 
the  well ;  she  could  not  speak. 

The  priest  broke  the  silence. 

"  You  are  surprised  to  find  me  here  ?  "  he  said  softly. 

Still  Ulrica  could  not  speak.  The  presentiment  of  evil  was  closing 
upon  her  again  fast. 

"It  was  my  only  way  of  speaking  to  you,"  went  on  Father  Lawrence. 
"  I  have  been  treated  shamefully  by  Dr.  Strong.  Your  dead  father's 
wishes  have  been  utterly  neglected  in  every  way  ;  I  have  been  spurned  and 
reviled ! " 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  Ulrica  forced  her  pale  lips  to  utter. 

"  I  have  much  to  say  to  you. " 

Father  Lawrence  paused,  and  the  girl,  recovering  a  little  from  the  shock, 
sank  again  onto  the  wall  and  put  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

"  Why  have  you  come  to  me  like  this  ?  "  she  said  in  low  bitter  tones ; 
"  it  is  cowardly  —  it  is  dishonorable !  " 

The  priest's  face  darkened. 

"  The  means  will  justify  the  end,"  he  said  smoothly.  "  What  I  have  to 
tell  you  to-day  will ' 

Ulrica  rose  hurriedly. 

"  There  is  nothing  that  you  have  to  tell  me  to-day  that  I  care  to  hear. 
Let  me  pass ! " 

Father  Lawrence  stood  in  her  path. 

"  I  must  speak,"  he  cried.  "  My  duty  urges  me  to  it.  Stay  and  hear 
me.  You  are  about  to  marry?  " 

Ulrica  lifted  her  hand  to  her  throat  and  loosened  the  clasp  of  her  cloak ; 
she  felt  choked. 

"  I  decline  to  discuss  my  private  affairs  with  any  one,"  she  said  in  low 
faint  tones.  Her  courage  was  fleeting  fast. 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  79 

"  It  is  on  this  subject  I  have  come.  If  you  will  not  listen  to  my  religious 
teachings  —  if  you  reject  my  friendship,  you  must  hear  me  now  before  you 
go  farther.  It  is  not  of  yourself  you  must  think  now,  but  of  the  man  you 
would  marry. " 

Ulrica  started.  Her  feeling  of  oppression  and  fear  had  unsettled  her  ; 
she  felt  now  actual  dread,  and  her  face  paled  unconsciously. 

Father  Lawrence  watched  her  keenly. 

She  looked  a  frail,  fair  creature  to  bear  sorrow  ;  yet  sorrow  was  coming 
to  her.  His  gaze  lingered  on  her.  Then  he  said  : 

"  Have  you  ever  thought  that  disgrace  and  pain  might  follow  on  your 
marriage?  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  degradation  you  might  bring  on 
an  honored  name?  Have  you  ever  thought  what  you  are?. " 

Ulrica  put  out  one  hand,  and  steadied  herself  against  the  wall. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  whispered. 

"  You  are  the  child  of  George  Messenger, .money -lender,  usurer,  extor- 
tioner. Every  penny  your  father  amassed  was  robbed  from  others.  Do 
you  think  you  are  the  wife  Lady  Dunworthy  would  choose  for  her  son,  or 
her  son  for  himself,  if  they  knew  the  truth?  " 

Ulrica  stood  rooted  to  the  ground,  her  hand  resting  on  the  wall. 

For  one  instant  her  heart  seemed  turned  to  stone.  A  deadly  faintness 
stole  over  her. 

This  must  mean  separation,  sorrow  —  worse  than  death. 

The  agony  was  too  great ;  she  turned  swiftlyfon  the  priest. 

"  It  is  not  true ! "  she  cried  passionately.  "  I  will  not  believe  it.  You 
have  hated  me — planned  against  me  from  the  beginning.  This — this  is 
part  of  your  plot  against  me  —  I  know  it ! " 

She  sank  down  onto  the  wall  as  she  spoke,  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

Father  Lawrence  looked  at  her  for  an  instant. 

"  Will  you  never  judge  me  right?  "  he  said  half  sadly.  "  You  tell  me  I 
lie.  The  proof  of  my  words  can  easily  be  yours.  Ask  Dr.  Strong.  You 
will  believe  him. " 

"  Why  did  you  come?  Why  not  have  left  me  in  ignorance  ?  "  whispered 
Ulrica  faintly. 

"  Because  I  held  it  my  duty  ;  because  I  knew  you  were  ignorant  of  the 
truth,  and  that  you  ought  to  know  it  before  you  went  farther." 

Ulrica  sat  quiet ;  she  seemed  stunned. 

"  Yes,  you  are  right.  I  ought  to  have  known  this  long  ago.  It  —  it 
would  have  saved  me  from  pain  —  terrible  pain  now ! "  she  said  after  a 
while. 

"  I  shall  remain  in  the  village  until  to-morrow  ; "  Father  Lawrence  pulled 
his  cloak  round  him  ;  "  it  may  be  that  you  will  wish  to  leave  this  neighbor- 
hood. Look  on  me  as  your  friend,  and  trust  me.  My  words  have  given 
you  pain  —  well,  as  you  grow  in  years  you  will  learn  that  pain  is  the  lot  of 
every  creature.  I  deemed  it  best  you  should  know  all. " 

He  bent  his  head,  and  pushed  through  the  bushes  out  of  sight. 

Ulrica  sat  on,  gazing  after  him,  her  mind  almost  a  blank. 

A  cold  laugh  roused  her,  and  looking  round  suddenly,  she  became  aware 
of  the  presence  of  Horace  Mott  leaning  against  the  well-post,  a  smile  on 
his  lips,  a  strange  expression  of  triumph  in  his  eyes. 
"  Mr.  Mott,"  faltered  the  girl;  "  you — you  here!" 
"  Yes,  I  have  been  here  all  the  time." 
Ulrica  said  nothing;  her  hands  trembled. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  8 1 


'*This  news  has  upset  you,"  he  continued. 
Ulrica  eave  a  sieh  and  rose. 


Ulrica  gave  a  sigh 

"  I  cannot  speak  to  you  now,"  she  said  agitatedly;  "  please  let  me  pass." 

"  You  wish  to  join  your  lover?"  he  queried. 

Her  cheeks  flushed  crimson,  then  faded  to  deathly  white. 

"  Let  me  pass ! "  was  all  she  said. 

Mr.  Mott  made  no  effort  to  move. 

"  So,"  he  sneered,  "you  think  your  lover  will  throw  this  news  on  one 
side;  will  link  his  honorable  name  with  one  that  has  been  dragged  through 
the  mire  of  shame;  or,  perhaps,  you  do  not  mean  to  tell  him — eh?  " 

The  question  was  put  so  suddenly,  that  Ulrica  found  herself  answer- 
ing it. 

"  Yes,  yes — oh  yes;  I  will  tell  him  now;  it  will  rest  with  him;  but  I 
have  no  fear,  for  he  loves  me — he  loves  me!" 

The  last  words  were  whispered  very  low,  but  they  reached  the  listener's 
ear. 

His  brows  met  and  his  face  flushed;  he  laughed  again  harshly. 

"  You  are  confident  — very  sure.  Well,  put  him  to  the  test.  Tell  him 
all;  but,"  he  stopped  for  an  instant,  "you  have  yet  to  learn  that  all. 
Father  Lawrence  is  wrong;  there  is  more  and  worse  to  be  told." 

Ulrica  met  his  dark,  wicked  eyes  ;  her  own  were  distraught  with  horror 
and  fear. 

"  Yes ;  go  to  your  lover,  and  tell  him  all — tell  him  that  your  father  was 
a  thief — a  usurer  —  an  extortioner  —  and  more,  tell  him  that  your  father 
was  a  murderer ;  then  see  if  he  will  make  you  his  wife !  " 

He  spoke  slowly ;  as  he  finished,  he  put  out  his  hand  to  help  the  girl, 
for  she  reeled  and  almost  felL 

"I  —  I  don't  want  help.  I  am  not  going  to  faint,"  she  said  quietly, 
sinking  back  into  her  old  position  and  brushing  her  hot  eyes  with  her  cold 
hands.  "  I  can  hear  all  you  have  to  say  —  tell  me  everything." 

Horace  Mott  was  silent  for  an  instant ;  his  heart,  throbbing  with  its 
passionate  love,  was  swelled  now  by  the  admiration  that  came  over  him  for 
this  girl,  so  young  and  weak,  yet  with  the  courage  of  a  lion. 

"  Your  father  murdered  his  wife  —  your  mother.  I  have  known  this  all 
the  while,"  he  said  ;  "but  have  held  my  tongue  and  waited.  You  have 
hated  me  —  aye,  I  have  not  been  blind.  I  could  have  torn  you  from  your 
lover's  arms  before,  but  I  waited.  I  have  a  score  to  settle  with  you  both." 

Ulrica  took  no  notice  of  these  words. 

"You  were  going  to  tell  me  of  my  father's  crime,"  she  said,  hi  cold, 
strained  tones. 

He  laughed  at  her  with  flashing  eyes,  then  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
\    "  You  remember  the  day  of  your  father's  death  ?  " 
>     She  made  a  sign  of  assent. 

"  You  recall  what  occurred  just  before  his  seizure  ?  " 
'     "  No,  not  clearly." 

"  You  were  standing  by  the  chair  ;  the  crowd  moving  round  you  to  and 
fro.  I  was  there.  A  man  passed  you,  and  as  your  father's  eyes  rested  on 
this  man,  he  was  attacked  by  a  paroxysm  of  fear,  culminating  in  the  fit 
that  eventually  killed  him." 

He  paused  for  an  instant.  Ulrica  did  not  yet  move.  Some  horrible 
sensation  was  creeping  over  her,  whispering  that  this  was  true. 

"  That  man  I  know,"  Horace  Mott  said,  still  fixing  her  with  his  eager 
bunting  gaze ;  "  he  held  this  secret  of  your  father's  in  his  kwpiog,  and 


82  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

George  Messenger  dreaded  that  through  him  justice  would  come.  Once, 
as  a  child,  you  met  this  man.  Do  you  remember,  years  ago,  being  taken 
to  a  dingy  house  in  Paris  by  your  father?  " 

"  I  have  no  recollection." 

"  No  memory  of  a  struggle  —  a  fight  ?  " 

Ulrica  shook  her  head. 

"No — none." 

Horace  Mott  looked  disturbed  for  a  moment. 

"  Well,  that  matters  not.  If  you  require  proof,  Sir  Geoffrey  Denvil, 
your  father's  foe,  will  give  it  to  you.  Mr.  Loudon  will  bear  witness  to  the 

meeting  between  your  father  and  Sir  Geoffrey,  and But  you  want 

nothing  more ;  you  know  this  is  true." 

Ulrica  sat  still  in  the  same  position. 

"Is  this  all ? "  she  asked,  in  the  low  strained  tones  so  unlike  her  fresh 
young  voice. 

"  No,"  breathed  the  man  suddenly;  "  it  is  not  all     Ulrica,  I  love  you! " 

Ulrica  lifted  hejr  haggard  young  face ;  her  trembling  lips  were  curled  with 
contempt. 

"  You  are  a  coward  !"  she  said  slowly;  "  I  have  always  hated  you,  dis- 
trusted you.  Now  I  hold  you  the  most  contemptible  thing  on  this  earth ! " 

He  strode  forward,  and  gripped  her  wrist. 

"Unhand  me!"  she  said  swiftly,  meeting  his  gaze  fearlessly;  "do  you 
forget  that  I  am  to  be  the  wife  of  your  friend  ?  " 

"You!"  he  laughed  bitterly  and  recklessly  —  "you  the  wife  of  John 
Dunworthy !  Listen.  By  all  I  hold  sacred,  I  swear  this  shall  never  be  — 
never!  His  lips  shall  cease  from  touching  yours;  his  arms  shall  fold  no 
longer  round  your  beautiful  form.  You  hate  me,  you  loathe  me,  you 
despise  me,  do  you,  my  pretty  Ulrica?  By  Heaven,  but  you  shall  repent  those 
words  ! " 

His  strong  arms  were  wound  round  her.  Struggle  as  she  might,  Ulrica 
could  not  break  herself  from  his  hold. 

Her  heart  beat  almost  to  suffocation,  her  numbed  lips  refused  to  open, 
her  eyes  closed  so  that  she  could  not  see  that  dark,  passionate  face  close  to 
hers.  Horace  Mott  drew  her  to  the  brink  of  the  well. 

"Bend  your  beautiful  head.  Look  down  there,"  he  said  swiftly.  "It 
is  dark!  It  is  steep!  It  means  death!  Yet  I  will  assuredly  send  you 
down  to  that  silent  water  rather  than  see  you  John  Dunworthy's  wife. 
No,  Ulrica ;  you  are  mine  henceforth.  Listen !  If  you  defy  me  and  go 
to  him,  I  give  you  warning  the  day  that  sees  you  his  wife  shall  end  in  a 
night  of  widowhood.  Yes,  I  will  kill  him! — shoot  him  like  a  dog  —  the 
dog  he  is!  It  is  a  bond  between  us,  and  shall  be  sealed  thus." 

Ulrica  was  conscious  that  he  pressed  her  still  more  passionately  to  him, 
then  his  lips  touched  hers.  All  the  horror,  the  shame,  the  misery  of  the 
moment  came  upon  her  then  in  its  truth.  She  struggled  again  and  again, 
and  gave  one  short  despairing  cry. 

Horace  Mott's  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps. 

With  a  muttered  oath  he  released  the  girl,  and  pushed  his  way  through 
the  bushes,  as  Sir  John  Dunworthy  ran  down  the  path,  and  found  his 
darling — his  love  —  stretched  in  a  dead  faint  at  his  feet. 

"  Let  me  go  back  to  Bathurst — take  me  to  Bathurst!"  were  the  first 
words  Ulrica  uttered  as  she  recovered  from  her  fainting-fit. 

Sir  John,  wild  with  his  distress,  had  picked  up  her  insensible  form  and 
carried  it  with  great  difficulty  up  the  path  to  the  lawn. 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  83 

There  he  met  Horace  Mott  sauntering  slowly  to  and  fro  reading  a 
newspaper. 

"  Great  Heaven,  Dunworthy !  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  throwing  away  his 
paper  and  hurrying  forward. 

"  Ulrica  has  fainted,"  Sir  John  said  in  great  agitation.  "  What  can  have 
happened  ?  I  was  hurrying  to  her  when  I  thought  I  heard  her  scream, 
and  rushed  down  to  find  her  lying  on  the  ground  by  the  old  well. " 

"  She  must  have  fallen  and  hurt  herself,"  observed  Mr.  Mott.  "I  will 
go  and  send  her  maid. " 

"  Please;  thanks,  awfully,  Mott." 

Mr.  Mott  was  back  almost  directly,  followed  by  Lady  Dunworthy  and 
one  of  the  maids. 

Mary,  Ulrica's  own  little  abigail,  was  gone  to  London  for  a  holiday. 

"  Miss  Messenger  faulted?  Dear  me,  how  extraordinary?  "  exclaimed 
Lady  Dunworthy. 

Sir  John  was  too  much  occupied  in  gazing  at  his  darling's  white,  still 
face  to  notice  his  mother,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  he  was  rejoiced  to  see 
the  heavy  lashes  uplifte^. 

Horace  Mott  was  close  by,  but  not  in  sight;  he  was  waiting  to  hear  what 
Ulrica  would  say,  but  her  only  words  were:  "  Take  me  back  to  Bathurst 

—  take  me  back!" 

Lady  Dunworthy  was  exceedingly  annoyed  that  Ulrica  should  wish  to  go 
home,  and  when  Sir  John  hurried  away  to  order  the  carriage,  she  said, 
sharply: 

"  Can  you  give  us  no  explanation  of  this  strange  request,  Miss  Messenger? 
It  is  a  very  extraordinary  affair  altogether,  really !  " 

But  Ulrica  made  no  reply;  she  only  sat  still  on  the  rustic  garden-chair 
and  gazed  straight  before  her. 

Horace  Mott  watched  her  carefully,  and  the  maid  handed  her  a  smelling- 
bottle,  with  great  sympathy  for  Sir  John's  "  pretty  young  lady. " 

When  her  son  came  fleeting  back,  Lady  Dunworthy  sailed  to  meet  him. 

"  I  have  the  right  to  ask  what  has  happened,  John?  " 

"  You,know  as  much  as  I  do,"  he  replied,  tersely.  "  I  was  foolish  enough 
to  leave  Ulrica  down  by  the  old  well  alone,  and  something  must  have 
frightened  her. " 

Lady  Dunworthy  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Why  is  it,  I  wonder,  that  persons  of  her  class  always  faint  or  go  into 
hysterics?  "  she  said,  with  a  sneer. 

But  Sir  John  was  gone,  and  very  tenderly  was  assisting  his  love  to  rise. 

He  drove  her  back  himself  to  Bathurst,  glancing  ever  and  anon  anxiously 
at  her  white  face. 

As  they  reached  Guy's  home  he  bent  and  whispered  : 
.  |i  "  Will  my  darling  tell  me  now  what  happened  ?  " 

Ulrica  looked  up  at  him  for  one  instant,  then  put  her  hand  in  one  of  his 
and  carried  'A  to  her  lips. 
| »  "  I  was  wrong,  Jack, "  she  said  in  such  strained  husky  tones ;  "  your 

—  your  castle  has  ghosts  —  after  all" 

"  And  you  were  frightened,  my  own  ?  " 

^  "  Yes,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  was  frightened  —  frightened  almost  to  death." 
:»  Sir  John  gave  a  sigh  of  relief ;  he  clasped  her  small  cold  hand  firmly. 
'    "  You  shall  tell  me  all  about  it  to-morrow,  my  own  darling.     I  was  a 
fool  to  let  you  go  there  alone. " 

They  reached  Bathurst  Hall,  and  he  lifted  her  down  carefully. 


84  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

Mrs.  Strong  was  shocked  at  the  girl's  white  face. 

"  Ulrica'  has  had  a  fright  and  faulted, "  explained  Sir  John,  "  and  she 
would  come  back  to  you. " 

"  My  daughter ! "  murmured  Mrs.  Strong,  as  she  enfolded  the  girl  in  a 
warm  embrace.  "  Now  I  recommend  quiet  and  rest.  Leave  her  to  me, 
John  ;  she  will  be  herself  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow,"  murmured  Ulrica  to  herself,  and  shuddered ;  "  to-mor- 
row —  alas !  " 

Mrs.  Strong  left  the  lovers  alone  for  an  instant  while  she  went  to  give 
orders  about  Ulrica's  room. 

"  My  darling,  my  poor  white  love !  "  said  Sir  John,  drawing  Ulrica  to 
him. 

She  rested  against  him  silently. 

"  It  is  for  the  last  time,"  she  said  in  her  heart.  ";Oh,  God,  for  the  last 
time !  " 

"  Promise  me  to  rest,  my  precious  one.  I  will  ride  over  to-morrow,  or 
would  you  like  a  day  all  to  yourself  ?  " 

Ulrica's  throat  was  choking  ;  she  longed  to  throw  her  arms  round  him, 
and  entreat  him  to  keep  her,  always  to  cling  to  her,  but  the  shame,  the 
awful  horror  that  had  come  upon  her,  stayed  her. 

She  must  part  from  him  now  ;  she  must  never  see  him  again. 

"Don't  —  don't  come  to-morrow,"  she  said  faintly.  "Jack,  forgive 
me  ;  I  am " 

"  Forgive  you,  dear.  Why,  it  is  you  who  should  forgive  me  for  letting 
you  go  off  down  to  such  gloomy  places  all  alone.  Now,  my  darling,  listen. 
Something  has  upset  you  ;  you  shall  have  a  nice,  quiet  day  all  to  yourself 
to-morrow,  and  then  when  you  are  better  you  shall  tell  me  all  about  it. 
Does  that  please  my  own  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  are  too  good  to  me  —  too  good!" 

There  was  such  a  wail  in  her  voice  that  Sir  John's  face  looked  pained. 

"  Too  good  to  you,  my  love,  my  life!"  he  murmured,  pressing  her  to 
him.  "  Now  I  must  go.  Au  revoir,  my  darling. " 

"  Good-bye !  "  Ulrica's  pale  lips  formed,  but  could  not  utter  the  ward. 

Mrs.  Strong  came  back,  and  the  lovers  parted. 

"  Take  care  of  her,"  whispered  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Strong  nodded  ;  then  the  young  man  slowly  departed. 

The  older  woman  led  Ulrica  up  to  her  bedroom,  and  after  a  few  soothing 
words  left  her  alone  — alone! 


CHAPTER  XII. 

/"IONNIE  WREN  heard  of  Ulrica's  strange  illness  with  inward  delight, 
VJ  which  rose  exceedingly  when  she  discovered  Sir  John's  uneasiness  and 
distress. 

Lady  Dunworthy  expressed  herself  openly  about  her  son's  fiancee,  and 
confided  to  Connie  that  there  was  no  doubt  Ulrica  had  fainted  on 
purpose. 

Sir  John  took  no  notice  of  their  looks  and  words.  Doubt  of  his  fair 
darling  never  darkened  his  mind. 

Horace  Mott  watched  him  as  he  mounted  his  horse  tie  next  morning 
and  rode  away. 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  85 

"  He  is  going  to  her,"  he  thought.  "  What  will  follow  ?  I  must 
watch!" 

So  equipping  himself  hastily,  he  went  round  to  the  stables  and  mounted 
a  horse  also. 

Sir  John  had  walked,  not  cantered  away,  and  to  Horace  Mott's  aston- 
ishment, he  suddenly  turned  round  and  returned. 

"  I  have  just  remembered  that  the  hounds  meet  at  Pleydell  Common  to- 
day," explained  Sir  John.  "  Will  you  come?" 

Horace  Mott  shook  his  head. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  ride  to  the  village  ;  I  want  to  telegraph  to  town.  * 

The  two  men  separated  with  a  mutual  nod. 

Connie  spent  a  long,  dull  day  ;  she  yawned  all  the  morning,  and  then  in- 
vented a  bad  headache  for  the  afternoon  to  escape  Lady  Dunworthy's 
society,  which  bored  her  exceedingly. 

Once  in  her  room,  she  gave  herself  up  to  a  good  hour  with  her  wardrobe 
and  her  maid. 

"  I  would  give  much  to  know  what  ails  her,"  she  thought  as  she  stood 
before  her  mirror  and  made  her  toilet  for  the  evening.  She  was  thinking 
of  Ulrica.  "  There  is  some  mystery.  Oh,  if  only  she  would  turn  out  to 
be  an  adventuress.  But  there's  no  such  luck.  Sir  John  looks  bothered,  , 
anyway,  and  her  fainting  at  the  old  well  seems  very  queer.  I  wonder  why 
Horace  Mott  always  smiles  so  disagreeably  when  he  glances  at  me?  I  hate 
that  man ! " 

Her  dress  adjusted,  she  gazed  at  herself  with  satisfaction,  and  determined 
to  make  one  good  struggle  more  before  she  resigned  Sir  John  to  Ulrica 
forever. 

Sir  John  was  just  striding  through  the  hall  as  she  swept  down  the  stairs. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Wren,  you're  a  perfect  vision  of  loveliness !  Beware  how 
you  approach  me  ;  I  am  covered  with  mud,  as  you  perceive. " 

"  Have  you  had  a  good  day?  "  asked  Connie,  lifting  her  eyes  with  her 
most  effective  glance. 

"  Splendid  —  simply  A  I !  Never  had  a  better.  You  should  have  been 
there." 

"  Yes  ;  I  should  have  enjoyed  it,"  she  said  plaintively;  "  but  you  did  not 
ask  me. " 

"  How  remiss  of  me !  Pray  forgive  me  ;  and  now  I  must  hurry  up,  or  I 
shall  be  late  for  dinner. " 

"  You  are  not  going  out  again?  " 

"No." 

Connie  smiled. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  said  sweetly,  "for  we  are  quite  alone.  Mr.  Mott 
left  us  to-day  ;  he  was  summoned  to  town,  he  said. " 

"  Mott  gone !  "  repeated  Sir  John  in  surprise.  "  That  must  be  something 
new  ;  he  did  not  speak  of  it  this  morning.  I  wonder  what  is  up. " 

"  Perhaps  Miss  Messenger  can  tell  you,"  observed  Connie  very  sweetly 
and  innocently,  "  for  I  noticed,  as  we  joined  them  the  other  day,  they  both 
looked  distressed.  I  fancy  he  must  have  been  confiding  some  trouble  to  her; 
at  any  rate  he  follows  her  about  like  a  shadow." 

"  I  will  ask  Ulrica  about  it,"  answered  Sir  John,  upon  whom  this  remark 
fell  very  flat  indeed.  .  , 

He  waved  his  hand  and  ran  up  to  his  room  whistling  merrily.  His  man 
was  busy  with  his  clothes  as  he  entered.  He  handed  a  note  to  his  master. 

"  This  has  just  come  for  you,  sir. " 


86  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

Sir  John  took  it  eagerly.     It  was  in  Ulrica's  handwriting. 

"  You  can  go,  Gryce,"  he  said  kindly.  "  I  shall  not  want  you." 

The  man  withdrew,  and  Sir  John  waited  till  he  was  gone;  then,  with  a 
flush  of  happiness,  pressed  the  unconscious  paper  to  his  lips.  Ulrica's  let- 
ters always  delighted  her  lover.  They  were  so  sweet  and  true ;  she  did  not 
say  much,  but  the  depth  —  the  sincerity  of  her  nature  was  visible  in  every 
line,  speaking  fearlessly  how  greatly  she  loved. 

He  looked  at  it  for  a  second,  then  tore  open  the  envelope  with  a  smile 
of  pleased  anticipation. 

A  small  object  rolled  from  the  paper  and  dropped  to  the  floor.  He 
picked  it  up;  it  was  a  ring  —  the  ring  he  had  given  her.  He  turned  to  the 
letter  in  surprise;  the  smile  died  away  as  he  read  the  first  line.  There  was 
no  beginning,  no  term  of  endearment;  it  was  clearly,  concisely,  curtly 
written: 

"  When  you  receive  this,  I  shall  have  left  Bathurst  HalL" 

Sir  John's  hand  dropped.      What  could  this  mean? 

A  cold  sensation  stole  over  his  heart.  He  lifted  the  letter  and  forced 
himself  to  read  on: 

"  Circumstances  have  occurred  to-day  that  must  separate  us  forever.  I 
can  never  see  you  again  — never  be  your  wife.  If  I  could  ease  your  heart 
of  the  pain  these  words  must  bring,  I  would  do  it  if  it  cost  me  my  life;  but 
I  am  powerless.  Do  not  try  to  find  me.  I  cannot  —  I  must  not  —  I  dare 
not  see  you.  May  God  bless  you  and  bring  you  every  earthly  happiness! 
There  is  nothing  too  good  for  you.  ULRICA  MESSENGER." 

The  letter  dropped  from  his  fingers;  he  staggered  to  a  chair. 

At  first  his  brain  was  stunned,  his  thoughts  would  not  come;  then  the 
full  weight  of  the  blow  struck  home  to  him. 

Something  terrible  had  happened!  Ulrica  was  gone — his  love,  his 
light,  his  very  life  gone!  What  could  it  mean!  He  bent  his  head  into 
his  hands,  and  tried  to  think.  What  could  come  that  should  separate  them 
forever?  Who  had  the  right  to  part  them? 

He  rose  and  strode  to  the  window  in  his  agitation. 

Gone !  Where  —  to  whom  ?  Never  see  her  again.  Oh,  that  was  too 
bitter  —  too  cruel ! 

He  picked  up  the  letter  once  more.  Nothing  explained,  no  word  of 
farewell,  no  word  of  tenderness. 

His  heart  was  suddenly  assailed  by  doubt  —  by  jealousy.  Ulrica  had 
deceived  him  ;  she  had  never  loved  him ! 

He  trod  the  paper  under  his  foot,  and  strode  up  and  down  in  a  tempest 
of  pain,  fear,  perplexity. 

It  lasted  only  a  moment ;  then  his  determination  was  taken.  He  opened 
his  door. 

"  Gryce!" 

"Yes,  Sir  John." 

"  Send  round  to  the  stables  and  tell  them  to  saddle  the  mare  Stella  at 
once. " 

"Yes,  Sir  John." 

He  would  ride  over  without  delay ;  she  might  not  yet  have  gone  ;  there 
was  not  a  moment  to  lose.  In  his  excitement  he  trembled  like  a  woman. 
His  fatigue  was  forgotten ;  he  thrilled  to  be  doing,  to  end  this  terrible 
suspense.  Never  in  his  whole  easy  life  had  he  suffered  such  grief  as  now. 
It  crushed  his  heart  and  courage  by  its  greatness ;  it  stunned  him  by  its 
swiftness. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  87 

Meanwhile  Connie  had  watched  him  run  up-stairs,  with  a  triumphant 
beat  in  her  selfish  heart.  Now  was  her  opportunity  ;  it  would  be  odd  if 
she  could  not  make  some  good  use  of  it.  She  turned  to  the  drawing- 
rooira  which,  despite  its  size  and  grandeur,  Lady  Dunworthy  always  used, 
no  matter  how  small  her  party. 

She  looked  up  as  Connie  entered. 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  she  said,  graciously,  "and  are  you  better?  I  hope 
the  headache  is  quite  gone. " 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  dear  Lady  Dunworthy  j  you  are  always  so  kind.  I 
feel  quite  well  now. " 

Connie  drew  up  a  low  chair  to  the  fire. 

"  You  overwork  yourself,"  was  the  elder  woman's  affectionate  reproof. 

Connie  shook  her  head. 

"  Indeed,  no.     I  like  to  help  you,"  she  answered  sweetly. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,  Connie,"  sighed  Lady  Dunworthy,  gazing  at  the 
fire  gloomily.  "  Has  John  come  in,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  met  him  just  this  instant.     He  will  be  here  to  dinner  to-night. " 

Lady  Dunworthy  heaved  another  sigh. 

"For  a  wonder!  that  miserable  infatuation — ah,  how  I  wish  it  would 
all  end!" 

"  But  have  you  no  influence  with  Sir  John  ?  "  demanded  Connie,  mali- 
ciously innocent.  She  knew  right  well  the  workings  of  the  whole  affair — 
why  Lady  Dunworthy  brought  herself  to  receive  Ulrica,  and  why  Sir  John 
had  succeeded  so  easily. 

Lady  Dunworthy's  cheeks  colored  faintly. 

"  My  dear  child,  what  influence  should  I  have  against  a  designing  intrig- 
nante,  such  as  that  girl  is  ?  "  she  asked  in  reply. 

Connie  was  silent,  and  at  this  instant,  much  to  Lady  Dunworthy's  relief, 
dinner  was  announced. 

"  We  will  be  unorthodox,  and  not  wait  for  John,"  she  said,  as  she  rose 
and  sailed  to  the  door. 

As  they  were  crossing  the  hall,  Sir  John  ran  hurriedly  down  the  stairs  ; 
he  wore  his  hunting-coat  ;  his  hat  was  pressed  over  his  brows.  Connie 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face  ;  it  was  white,  drawn,  and  terribly  agitated. 

"  John ! "  exclaimed  Lady  Dunworthy. 

"I  am  not  coming  to  dinner,  mother,"  he  replied  curtly,  adding  to  the 
man-servant :  "  Has  Gryce  sent  round  the  mare  ?  " 

"Yes,  Sir  John." 

"  Going  out  again  ?  "  said  his  mother,  her  anger  betraying  itself  in  her 
tones.  "  To  Bathurst,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Yes,  mother,  to  Bathurst,"  was  his  answer,  given  coldly  and  shortly; 
then  he  added  with  his  usual  courtesy:  "  But  do  not  let  me  keep  you — it 
is  not  pleasant  out  here.". 

"I  had  hoped  you  would  have  stayed  with  us  to-night,"  observed  Lady 
Dunworthy,  with  a  heavy  frown ;  "  we  are  quite  alone  —  Horace  Mott  left 
us  to-day." 

"  I  am  sorry,  mother,  but  it  is  quite  impossible  " 

Lady  Dunworthy  turned  away,  and  Connie  followed  her,  biting  her  lip 

with  vexation.    Sir  John  pressed  his  hat  on,  took  his  hunting-crop,  mounted 

the  mare,  and  rode  away  in  the  darkness,  mad  with  the  agony  of  his  misery. 

Again  and  again  the  thought,  the  hope  would  come  that  it  was  not  true 

—  that  Ulrica  was  jesting. 

Then  the  hope  died  as  the  memory  of  yesterday  returned  ;  her  strange 


88  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

fainting-fit,  her  illneae.  Yes,  some  great,  some  awful  thing  had  come  upon 
the  brightness  of  their  love,  and  shadowed  it  for  a  time. 

Heedless  of  the  darkness  and  the  falling  rain,  he  rode  at  full  speed.  The 
action  seemed  to  relieve  him,  to  work  off  some  of  the  suspense. 

He  pawed  along  the  deserted  lanes,  which  so  often  had  been  peopled  of 
late  with  his  happy  fancies  and  glowing  hopes,  where  so  often  he  had  saun- 
tered with  Ulrica,  secure  in  their  solitude,  while  they  weaved  the  golden 
fetters  of  their  love's  young  dream. 

He  pushed  these  thoughts  from  him ;  his  whole  being  clamored  to  know 
the  truth,  learn  the  worst. 

His  voice,  hoarse  with  agitation,  summoned  the  lodge-keeper  in  haste 
to  the  gate ;  he  galloped  up  the  avenue  regardless-of  the  man's  surprised 
looks,  and  in  another  moment  he  was  at  the  Hall,  and  off  his  horse. 

The  butler  stared  with  astonishment  at  his  mud-bespattered  form  and 
white  face. 

"  Send  some  one  to  hold  my  horse,  Stevens,"  said  Sir  John  briefly. 

He  stood  in  the  doorway,  the  reins  still  in  his  hand.  A  portmanteau 
and  rug  lay  just  inside.  At  the  sight  his  heart  leaped.  They  must  be 
hers.  He  was  in  time. 

"  I  will  hold  it,  sir,  if  you  are  in  a  hurry. " 

Sir  John  nodded  his  head. 

"  Where  is ,"  he  began  huskily,  when  a  form  stood  beside  him. 

"Why,  D unworthy!" 

"Strong!" 

The  two  men  clasped  hands. 

"  I  have  this  rery  instant  arrived,"  said  Guy,  taking  in  that  something 
was  wrong  at  a  glance  ;  "  and " 

"  Where  is  Ulrica  ?  "  asked  the  other  hoarsely. 

Guy  stared  at  him. 

"  Ulrica  ?  Why,  in  her  room,  I  should  say.  I  have  not  seen  her  ;  but 
j » 

"  Then  —  then  she  is  gone. " 

And  Sir  John  staggered  against  the  wall. 

Guy  read  the  curiosity  in  Stevens'  face.  He  grasped  Sir  John  by  the 
shoulder,  and  forced  him  rather  than  assisted  him  into  his  study. 

"  Now  speak,"  he  said  sternly.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Sir  John  made  no  reply.  He  pulled  off  his  wet  glove,  and  with  tremb- 
ling fingers  drew  forth  Ulrica's  letter  ;  then,  throwing  it  onto  the  table, 
sank  into  a  chair,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Guy  picked  up  the  letter.  He  read  it  once  —  a  second,  a  third  time  — 
before  he  seemed  to  grasp  the  full  meaning. 

He  was  so  strangely  quiet  that  Sir  John  lifted  his  head,  and  the  expres- 
sion on  the  other's  face  was  the  finishing-touch  to  all. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Strong,  tell  me  all !     What — what  does  it  mean?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  —  I  don't  know,"  Guy  replied,  the  words  dropping  from 
between  his  lips  with  difficulty. 

"  You  see,  she  says  she  will  leave  Bathurst  forever.  She  may  not  be 
gone.  It  may  be  only  a  joke — a  cruel  one  —  but  still  a  joke. " 

At  the  agony  in  his  voice,  Guy  woke  from  his  mental  prostration.  He 
put  his  hand  on  Sir  John's  shoulder. 

"  Dunworthy,  don't  give  way.  There  is  something  strange  about  this  I 
cannot  understand.  I  will  ring  and  ask  for  —  for  Ulrica." 

He  pulled  the  bell  as  he  spoke,  and  they  waited  in  silence. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  89 

Stevens  answered  the  summons. 

"  I've  'ad  Sir  John's  mare  took  round  to  the  stables,  sir;  she  was  a  little 
blown,"  he  said  as  he  entered. 

"  Quite  right,  Stevens.     Send  Miss  Messenger's  maid  to  me." 

"Do  you  mean  Mary,  sir? " 

"Yes." 

j    "  She've  gone  away  for  her  holiday,  sir.     She  went  a  week  yesterday. " 
:     Guy  hesitated  for  an  instant, 
i    "  Who  has  been  attending  Miss  Messenger?  "  he  asked. 

"  Bruce,  sir." 

"  Send  her  to  me ;  and,  Stevens,  be  careful  your  mistress  is  not  roused. 
She  is  asleep  now,  and  must  sleep  on. " 

The  butler  withdrew,  and  Guy  walked  up  and  down  in  silence  till  the 
maid  appeared. 

Sir  John  was  seated  by  the  table,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand. 

"  Ah,  Bruce,"  said  Dr.  Strong,  kindly,  "  has  Miss  Messenger  returned  ?  " 

He  put  the  question  easily,  though  certain  in  his  heart  that  Ulrica  was 
gone);  but  all  scandal  must  be  prevented  as  far  as  possible. 

"  No,  sir ;  she  went  out  quite  early  this  afternoon.  It  is  time  she  was 
home.  I  hope  there  is  nothing  the  matter,  sir  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no."  Guy  forced  himself  to  speak  lightly.  "  Miss  Messenger  had 
to  go  to  London.  She  must  have  been  detained  by  her  friends." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  she  had  told  me,  sir.  I  am  sure  mistress  would  have  wished 
me  to  go  with  Miss  Ulrica." 

"  Miss  Ulrica  knew  your  mistress  was  ill  to-day,  and  would  need  you. " 

The  door  shut  on  the  maid. 

Guy  turned  to  Sir  John. 

"  You  must  wake  up,  Dunworthy;  something  is  wrong.  You  must  come 
with  me." 

"  Where  to  ?  " 

"London." 
•    "  But  how  do  you  know  she  is  there  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  conjecture  it.  Ah,  it  is  very  simple.  Where  would 
a  soul,  worn  and  worried  as  Ulrica  must  be,  seek  for  oblivion,  save  in  a 
great  city  like  London  ?  Coire,  we  will  go  first  to  Bathurst,  and  make 
inquiries."  . 

In  another  moment  they  were  seated  in  Guy's  dog-cart,  dashing  through 
the  wet  muddy  lanes  to  Bathurst  town. 

The  shops  were  closed,  the  streets  deserted. 

Bathurst  was  an  early  place  ;  it  retired  at  ten  o'clock. 

The  hour  was  just  chiming  as  they  drove  into  the  station-yard. 

Sir  John  sprang  from  his  seat  almost  before  the  cart  stopped. 

He  was  rushing  in,  but  Guy  was  to  quick  for  him. 

"  Dunworthy, "  he  said  hurriedly,  "  I  must  speak !  " 

He  called  one  of  the  porters,  then  walked  leisurely  in  through  the  sta- 
tion-door, Sir  John  following,  white  and  wan. 

"  Oh,  Barnes, "  said  Guy  to  the  station-master,  as  they  entered  the  book- 
ing-office, "  did  I  leave  my  small  portmanteau  behind  me  this  evening?  " 

The  man  put  down  his  newspaper  at  once. 

"  Your  small  portmanteau,  Dr.  Strong?  I  have  not  seen  one,  but  I  will 
send  and  inquire.  Glad  to  see  you  home  again,  sir !  I  hope  you  are 
well?  " 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,"  returned  Guy. 


90  HER    FATAL  SIN 

"  You  said  a  small  portmanteau,  didn't  you,  sir?  Here,  Bill,  go  and  look 
for  a  small — brown,  sir?  —  yes,  brown  portmanteau  belonging  to  Dr. 
Strong.  I  hope  he'll  find  it,  sir,  but  I  don't  remember  it." 

"  Perhaps  I  left  it  in  town,  after  all.  It  is  a  nuisance,  but  I  wanted  to 
make  inquiries. " 

Sir  John  turned  a  mute,  eager  glance  on  him. 

Guy  walked  up  and  down  for  two  minutes,  then  he  approached  his 
friend. 

"  Ulrica  had  a  raw  day  for  her  travel.  Oh,  by  the  way,  Barnes,  did 
Miss  Messenger  catch  the  four  express  this  afternoon?  " 

"Miss  Messenger!"  repeated  the  man.  "Let  me  see!  Oh,  yes,  sir;  I 
remember  she  did.  I  put  her  in  a  carriage  myself. " 

Sir  John's  right  hand  grasped  the  side  of  a  door. 

"I  nope  you  —  you  made  her  comfortable,  Barnes,"  he  said  in  low, 
husky  tones. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Sir  John,  I  did.  I  wanted  to  get  her  a  foot-warmer,  but  she 
would  not  have  it.  She  went  in  a  carriage  all  alone." 

"  Ah,  it's  a  tedious  journey  by  one's  self,"  observed  Guy,  watching  Sir 
John's  pale  face  intently. 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  cold,  sir.  Well,  there  was  one  or  two  people  I  could  have 
put  in  the  carriage,  sir ;  but  she  asked  to  be  alone.  There  was  Mrs.  God- 
win and  her  eldest  daughter,  and  the  gentleman  from  the  castle,  Sir  John 
—  Mr.  Mott,  I  think  you  calls  him.  Have  you  found  it,  Bill?  No?  Well, 
that's  odd.  I'll  hunt  through  myself,  if  you  will  wait,  sir." 

"  It  is  no  matter,  Barnes,"  Guy  cried  hurriedly. 

But  the  man  had  turned  away. 

As  he  vanished  in  the  darkness  of  the  platform  Sir  John  grasped  Guy's 
arm. 

His  face  now  was  ghastly  white  and  fixed,  his  breath  came  thick  and  fast. 

Like  a  flash  of  lightning  the  memory  of  yesterday  crossed  his  mind. 

Ulrica's  strange  illness,  her  mysterious  cruel  letter,  and  the  poisoned 
malicious  words  spoken  by  Connie. 

"  You  need  not  inquire  further,"  he  said  calmly,  his  voice  sounding 
strained  and  harsh.  "  I  know  the  meaning  of  all ;  she — she  has  gone  with 
Mott!" 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

T  .ONDON  at  night.  Thick  rain  was  falling,  in  a  steady  determined 
J_l  fashion,  a  muggy  close  fog  crept  through  every  crevice,  and  added  to 
the  discomfort  of  the  wet. 

At  Euston  Station  the  trains  were  starting  and  arriving  briskly  ;  crowds 
of  passengers  hurried  to  and  fro,  luggage  was  wheeled  by,  papers  were 
bought,  parting  or  welcoming  kisses  exchanged. 

All  was  bustle  and  confusion  ;  inside  the  station  it  was  warm  and  com- 
fortable ;  in  the  waiting-rooms  blazed  huge  fires ;  the  gas  was  lit  every- 
where. 

A  girl  stood  motionless  by  the  side  of  one  of  the  closed  bookstalls.  She 
wore  a  thick,  heavy  cloak,  and  a  black  veil  drawn  close  over  her  face ;  she 
had  no  luggage  and  was  quite  alone. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  9! 

The  sight  of  this  graceful  figure  standing  so  quietly  provoked  few  glances ; 
everybody  was  too  busy  with  their  own  concerns  to  trouble  their  heads 
about  her. 

It  was  Ulrica. 

She  was  dazed  and  worn  out,  but  her  brain  was  working  swiftly. 

She  had  left  Bathurst,  but  where  to  go  next  ? 

At  first  a  thought  of  seeking  out  her  maid  Mary,  and  obtaining  shelter 
with  her  for  a  day,  had  come  —  but  she  dismissed  it  quickly. 

By  this  means  her  whereabouts  would  soon  be  discovered,  and  she  would 
be  compelled  to  go  through  the  very  thing  she  dreaded  most  —  an  interview 
with  Sir  John,  or,  even  worse  than  that,  one  with  Horace  Mott. 

Her  heart  grew  sick  at  the  thought ;  then,  as  she  felt  her  limbs  tremble 
beneath  her,  she  thought  of  her  old  friend  Sam. 

Surely  she  could  turn  to  him  in  this  the  hour  of  her  need  ?  He  had 
been  so  staunch,  so  true.  She  determined  to  do  so,  and  asking  her  way 
of  a  passing  porter,  wuit  to  the  telegraph  office  outside  the  station. 

Here  she  pondered,  and  dispatched  a  telegram  to  Sam  in  Paris,  saying 
she  would  write  that  night  full  particulars  from  "little  Rica,"  using 
that  name  in  case  Sir  John  or  any  one  should  trace  her  having  sent  to  Sam. 

This  done,  she  made  her  way  up  to  a  burly -looking  policeman. 

"  Please  will  you  tell  me  of  a  respectable  hotel  —  it  must  be  cheap  ?  " 
she  asked  hurriedly. 

The  man  looked  at  her  ;  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

"  Are  you  alone?  "  he  said  gruffly. 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  there's  a  place  just  around  the  corner;  it  belongs  to  a  cousin  of 
my  missis;  you  can  go  there.  Tell  'em  I  sent  you —  X  42." 

Ulrica  thanked  the  man,  and  offered  him  a  shilling  from  her  slender  store. 
But  he  shook  his  head. 

"No  —  no;  I  don't  want  nothink  ;  you'll  find  plenty  to  do  with  your 
money.  Round  the  corner.  Oh,  p'raps  you  don't  know  your  way.  Hi, 
Jim!  Here,  take  this  lady  to  The  Three  Crowns  —  sharp!" 

"  Right  ye  are,  guv'nor.     This  way,  lady." 

Ulrica  thanked  the  man  again,  and  followed  the  little  ragged  urchin, 
unconscious  of  the  fact  that  she  in  turn  was  being  followed. 

The  Three  Crowns  turned  out  to  be  a  small,  smart-looking  public -house. 

Ulrica  recoiled  at  first;  she  could  not  enter  those  swinging  glass-doors, 
from  behind  which  came  the  sound  of  loud  voices  singing  a  music-hall  ditty, 
she  said  to  herself;  but  her  cicerone  had  no  intention  of  taking  her  there. 
He  pushed  open  a  door,  marked  "  Private  Bar,"  and  held  it  for  Ulrica  to 
pass  through.  •> 

The  room  was  dimly  lighted,  and  smelt  strongly  of  tobacco.  It  was 
empty. 

Ulrica  had  not  tasted  food  since  morning,  and  then  not  much.  Her 
misery  had  been  and  was  still  so  great,  all  appetite  was  gone,  but  she  felt 
strangely  weak. 

"  Mrs.  Cogger  —  Mrs.  Cog-g-er ! "  shouted  the  small  boy  shrilly,  as  Ulrica 
sank  onto  one  of  the  leather  seats  beside  the  table. 

"  Well,  now,  what's  up?  "  demanded  a  loud  voice,  and  a  woman  entered 
the  room.  She  was  very  fat  and  very  smart;  one  mass  of  beads  and  cherry 
ribbons. 

"  Dan's  sent  a  lady  —  wants  somethink,"  explained  the  boy. 

Mrs.  Cogger  curtseyed  to  Ulrica,  who  had  risen. 


92  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"  I  want  a  bedroom,  please,"  faltered  the  girl,   "  and  something  to  eat." 

Mrs.  Cogger  eyed  her  carefully. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  slowly ;  "  any  luggage,  miss?  " 

Ulrica  shook  her  head. 

"  Ahem ! "  Mrs.  Cogger  coughed  ;  "  it  is —  our  custom  to " 

"  To  be  paid  in  advance,"  finished  Ulrica.  "  Certainly ;  how  much  must 
I  give  you?  " 

The  landlady  looked  a  little  confused. 

"  Shall  you  stay  long,  miss?  "  she  asked. 

"  For  three  days,  at  least. " 

"  Then  give  me  a  sovereign  in  advance,  and  I'll  make  you  as  comfortable 
as  I  can.  This  way,  miss. " 

Ulrica  gave  the  boy  a  shilling,  and  then  toiled  up  the  narrow  staircase 
after  Mrs.  Cogger's  portly  form. 

The  bedroom  was  small,  scantily  furnished,  but  clean. 

Ulrica  sank  exhausted  into  a  chair,  and,  after  ordering  something  to  eat, 
she  begged  for  writing-paper,  and  sat  down  to  ask  Sam  for  help  and  advice. 

She  did  not  touch  on  the  subject  of  her  father's  crime.  She  took  it  for 
granted  Sam  would  know  what  she  meant ;  she  merely  told  him  her  con- 
nection with  her  friends  was  severed,  she  was  very  wretched,  and  would  he 
help  her  to  earn  her  living  in  some  way? 

After  swallowing  a  fewmouthfuls  she  told  the  landladly  she  was  going  to 
post  her  letter,  and  made  her  way  to  the  office  outside  the  station. 

She  was  soon  there  and  back,  and  still  the  figure  followed  her  stealthily. 
It  was  a  man  in  a  dark  ulster,  with  a  felt  hat  pulled  low  over  his  brows. 

He  watched  her  enter  the  "  private  bar  "  again,  then  nodded  and  strolled 
away. 

•  "Good!  She  will  stay  there  for  to-night.  Poor,  ignorant  plotter  — 
to  think  to  escape  me !  I  thought  she  would  face  her  lover  and  tell  him 
all.  Perhaps  this  is  only  a  blind.  I  must  watch  and  be  careful. " 

The  dark,  miserable  night  passed. 

Ulrica  had  tossed  and  turned  on  her  hard  bed,  but  at  last  had  sunk  into; 
a  troubled  sleep.  She  could  not  hear  from  Sam  for  two  days  yet,  and  until 
then  she  determined  to  keep  close  in  her  hiding-place. 

The  next  morning  broke  wet  and  cheerless.  Mrs.  Cogger  prepared  a 
substantial  meal,  and  carried  it  into  a  small  room  behind  the  private  bar. 

Here  Ulrica  sat  shivering  over  a  smoky  fire.  Breakfast  she  could  eat 
none.  She  was  too  ill  —  sick  with  anxiety  till  Sam's  letter  came. 

Outside  in  the  bar  several  men  were  drinking  and  talking,  among  them 
a  clean-shaven  groomlike-looking  man.  Mrs.  Cogger  was  very  busy  serv- 
ing them,  and  chatting,  and  by-and-by  a  woman  came  in,  with  whom  she 
shook  hands. 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do,"  said  this  woman,  when  invited  to  have 
something  comforting,  "  for  it's  blessed  cold  outside.  Dan  said  he'd  sent 
you  a  lady-customer  last  night,  Jane." 

"  Yes,  it  was  all  right ;  she  came,  and  is  here  now." 
.  The  groom  was  talking  with  the  rest,  but  he  had  one  ear  on   the 
woman. 

"  Going  to  stay  here  ?  "  demanded  the  new-comer. 

"  Dunno  —  somethink  queer  about  her.  Oh,  she's  respectable !  I  don't 
mean  that.  Expects  she'll  stay  for  three  days  —  anyhow,  she's  paid  for  it. 
Seems  as  if  she  were  troubled  like.  I  think  she's  waiting  for  a  letter  from 
somewheres. " 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  93 

The  groom  leisurely  finished  his  glass,  then,  with  a  good-morning  all 
round,  sauntered  out  of  the  bar. 

Once  outside,  he  gave  a  sharp  look  round,  then  started  down  the  street 
and  turned  a  corner.  Here  he  ran  against  a  man  waiting. 

"  I've  found  out  all,  sir.  She's  agoing  to  stay  for  another  day  or  two  ; 
is  expecting  a  letter,  or  something  of  the  sort. 

"Good,  "said  Horace  Mott ;  "there's  your  money.  Keep  your  eyes 
open  all  to-day,  and  bring  me  news  at  once  if  anything  happens. " 

The  miserable  morning  dragged  on.  Ulrica  tried  to  read,  but  she  was 
too  ill  to  do  anything  but  rest  on  her  hard  bed. 

Mrs.  Cogger  came  up  now  and  then  to  see  her,  and  was  much  concerned 
at  her  want  of  appetite. 

"  You'll  die — that's  what  it  is,"  she  said,  as  she  carried  the  supper  down 
at  night  untasted. 

The  next  morning  Ulrica  sought  the  landlady,  and  feverishly  begged  for 
work. 

"Give  me  anything  to  do  —  anything!  I  don't  care  what  it  is,"  she 
pleaded.  In  her  heart  she  said,  "  If  I  don't  do  something,  I  shall  go  mad !" 

The  memory  of  what  she  had  gone  through,  and  the  shame  and  misery, 
the  hopelessness  of  her  position,  were  too  terrible. 

Mrs.  Cogger  paused  to  think, 

"  I  ain't  got  nothing  for  you  to  do,"  she  said ;  "  but,"  then  she  added, 
"  can  you  sew  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  girl,  a  flush  creeping  over  her  pale  lovely  face  ; 
"but  I  —  I  can't  go  out.  I  want  to  work  here." 

"  I'll  manage  it.  Miss  Ward  across  the  way  is  a  dressmaker.  She  was 
only  asking  me  this  morning  for  some  one  to  do  the  odd  jobs,  stitch  on  the 
buttons,  and  such  like." 

"  Oh,  if  you  will  speak  to  her,  I  shall  be  grateful ! " 

"  You'll  get  eighteen  pence  a  day,"  said  Mrs.  Cogger,  and  disappeared. 

The  result  of  her  speaking  was  that  Ulrica  found  her  hands  busy  all  the 
day  sewing  brass  buttons  onto  a  plaid  dress,  finishing  off  the  seams  and  all 
the  bands  necessary.  It  was  new  and  not  pretty  work,  but  it  kept  her 

brain  from  going,  and  let  her  feverish  anxiety  loose  from  her  burning  heart. 
*  *  ***** 

"A  letter,  miss." 

Ulrica  dropped  her  work.  It  was  the  eve  of  the  fourth  day.  It  was  like 
a  year  —  more,  a  century  of  years  —  since  that  morning  at  the  old  well. 

Ulrica  looked  at  the  envelope.  It  was  in  an  unknown  hand,  addressed  to 
"  Miss  Barker  "  (the  name  she  had  chosen).  For  some  time  past  Sam  had 
been  unable  to  write  himself,  so  this  did  not  alarm  her.  A  cheque  slipped 
from  the  letter  as  she  unfolded  it,  but  it  lay  unheeded  on  her  knees. 

She  was  gazing  at  the  lines,  grasping  the  meaning  slowly. 

They  ran  as  follows : 

Paris,  Oct.  30,  188— 

"MADAM  : — I  am  instructed  by  my  client,  Mrs.  Samuel  Loudon,  to  inform  you  of 
the  death  of  her  husband  on  the ult.,  at  the  same  time  to  forward  you  the  en- 
closed draft  on  Coutts*  Bank  for  ^50.  Mrs.  Loudon  also  begs  me  to  say  that  she  is 
grieved  to  hear  of  your  misfortune  and  trusts  the  dishonor  you  speak  of  does  not  affect 
you  individually.  She  will  be  unable  to  offer  you  any  further  assistance,  and  begs  that 
you  will  not  apply  to  her  again.  Kindly  send  an  acknowledgement  of  the  cheque.  I  am, 
madam,  faithfully  yours, 

"  EDWARD  LOWK." 

The  letter  fluttered  to  the  ground. 

Sam  dead  i     It  was  iaapossibk:  —  it  was  horrible  I 


94  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

To  think  of  his  cheery  face  stiff  in  death,  his  warm-toned  voice  silent  for- 
ever —  it  was  more  than  she  could  understand,  it  was  awful !  She  let  her 
hands  sink  to  her  knees,  and  her  head  fall  onto  her  breast. 

She  was  indeed  forlorn  —  indeed  alone.  Where  were  her  tears?  Why 
would  they  not  come  and  break  the  band  that  was  stealing  round  her 
throat  and  heart?  Was  she  turned  to  stone? 

She  hardly  knew,  she  scarcely  realized  that  she  lived;  she  seemed  numbed 
with  her  pain  and  grief. 

The  door  opening  roused  her. 

Mrs.  Cogger  came  in  a  little  breathless  from  toiling  up  the  stairs,  and 
she  sank  into  a  chair.  , 

"Come,  my  dear,  this  won't  do,  you  know,"  she  said  as  soon  as  she 
could  speak;  "if  you  don't  eat,  I  shall  have  you  ill  in  my  house,  and  I 
can't  abide  illness." 
•  Ulrica  looked  at  her  in  a  dazed  way. 

"  I  shall  go  away  to-morrow,"  she  said,  speaking  almost  mechanically. 

Mrs.  Cogger  gave  her  a  swift,  sharp  look. 

"  Yes,  of  course, "  she  said.  "  Now,  I've  come  up  to  ask  you  just  to  trot 
down  with  me,  and  'ave  a  bit  of  supper  with  me  and  my  good  man." 

"  You  are  very  good,"  said  Ulrica,  still  mechanically. 

"  You  ain't  eat  nothink  for  nearly  two  days,  and  you  must  have  some- 
think." 

Mrs.  Cogger  rose,  her  sharp  eyes  had  caught  sight  of  the  cheque  on  the 
floor. 

"  Don't  leave  your  money  kicking  about  like  that,"  she  remonstrated. 

Ulrica  stooped  and  picked  up  both  the  letter  and  cheque. 

"  Now,  you'll  come,  won't  you  ?  "  urged  Mrs.  Cogger  good-naturedly. 

Ulrica  still  seemed  stunned  and  bewildered,  but  she  was  conscious  that  a 
terrible  future  lay  before  her  ;  she  must  not  get  ill,  deserted  as  she 
was. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  faintly  ;  "  I  will  come  in  a  minute." 

Mrs.  Cogger  nodded,  turned  on  her  heel,  and  went  laboriously  down  the 
stairs  again. 

Ulrica,  left  alone,  sat  silent  for  a  moment ;  then,  drawing  her  writing 
materials  towards  her,  addressed  an  envelope  to  Mrs.  Loudon,  and,  putting 
the  cheque  back,  closed  it  and  slipped  it  into  her  pocket. 

The  insulting  letter  had  wounded  her  at  first,  but  now  she  dismissed 
Mrs.  Loudon  from  her  distraught  mind  ;  she  had  need  of  all  her  strength 
and  courage  to  face  her  life  henceforth. 

She  made  her  way  slowly  in  the  little  parlor  behind  the  bar,  and  was 
welcomed  loudly  by  Mrs.  Cogger  and  her  husband. 

"Now,  sit  ye  down,  my  dear,"  commanded  the  landlady,  turning  round 
from  the  fire,  "  and  make  yourself  at  home. " 

Ulrica  sank  into  a  chair,  and  Mr.  Cogger  immediately  proffered  her  a 
cup  of  steaming  coffee. 

The  girl  tried  to  smile  her  thanks,  but  in  vain ;  she  could  only  murmur 
a  few  words. 

The  meal  was  humble  but  plentiful,  and  Mrs.  Cogger  hospitably  pushed 
everything  towards  her  guest. 

Ulrica  forced  herself  to  eat,  and  the  food  did  her  good. 

She  listened  to  the  gossip  of  the  buxom  landlady  and  her  spouse  as  in  a 
dream,  and  was  grateful  that  they  left  her  in  peace. 

At  last,  as  the  meal  ended,  she  rose  to  go.       t 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  95 

"  Thank  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  me,"  she  said  in  low  tones.     "  I 
can  never  repay  you. " 

"  I  don't  want  payment,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cogger  ;  then,  breaking  off  as 
the  barmaid  entered  the  room  :    "  Now,  Jane,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  A  gentleman,  ma'am,  says  he  must  see  you." 

Ulrica  turned  slowly  and  faced  the  door ;  some  terrible  fear  was  on 
her. 

There,  standing  calm  and  quiet,  with  a  smile  on  his  mouth  and  gleam  in 
his  eye,  was  Horace  Mott. 

She  sank  slowly  into  her  chair,  dimly  conscious  of  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  dimly  hearing  his  voice  ring  out : 

'  "  I  must  apologize.     I  have  been  looking  everywhere  for  this  lady.     She 
is  my  wife!" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

wife!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cogger.     "  Lor',  sir  ;  what  a  surprise! 
1      Miss  —  that  is  to  say,  Mrs.  Barker  never  said  as  she  was  married. 

Horace  Mott  smiled  again,  and  the  grip  of  his  hand  on  that  slender 
shoulder  grew  firmer. 

"  I  don't  think  we  need  disguise  anything  from  you,  madam,"  he  said 
pleasantly.  "  The  fact  is,  my  little  wife  and  I  disagreed  a  few  days  ago. 
The  fault  was  mine.  I  own  it,  and  I  have  come  to  beg  her  forgiveness 
and  take  her  home." 

Ulrica  seemed  to  wake  from  her  semi-trance;  she  staggered  to  her  feet. 

"No,  no;  not  with  you  —  not "she  gasped,  but  the  words  died 

away  in  a  moan,  and  her  head  sank  forward. 

Horace  Mott  drew  her  unconscious  form  close  to  his  heart. 

At  the  contact  his  eyes  flashed  and  his  pulses  thrilled,  but  his  voice  was 
perfectly  calm  as  he  spoke  to  the  astonished  Mrs.  Cogger  and  her  husband. 

"She  has  fainted,  poor  darling!  How  ill  she  looks!  I  can  never  for- 
give myself.  I  could  have  cut  out  my  tongue  for  the  angry  words  I  said;  but 
I  never  thought  she  would  leave  me.  Ah,  madam,  you  have  a  woman's 
true  heart;  you  can  sympathize  with  us.  You  understand?" 

"I  do  —  I  do,"  nodded  Mrs.  Cogger;  and  she  gave  a  deep  sigh.  "Me 
and  my  husband  had  'caps  of  squabbles,  but  that  was  long  ago.  We  made 
it  all  up  again,  and  so  will  she,  poor  young  lady.  She  looked_such  a  mite 
of  a  girl,  I  should  never  have  imagined  she  was  married." 

Horace  Mott  gazed  at  Ulrica's  pale,  lovely  face  pressed  against  his 
coat. 

He  laid  her  gently  on  the  hard  sofa,  and  took  up  her  small  left  hand. 

He  shook  his  head  sorrowfully. 

"  Her  ring  —  the  badge  of  our  love!"  he  said,  as  if  to  himself — "you 
threw  it  off,  my  darling,  in  your  sorrow,  but  I  found  it,  and  once  more  it 
shall  be  put  on  its  resting-place." 

There  was  not  a  spark  of  life  in  the  still  girlish  figure,  a  flicker  of  re- 
turning consciousness  on  her  face. 

He  felt  his  spirits  rise. 

This  was  unlooked-for  good  luck. 

He  had  expected  great  difficulty,  perhaps  defeat,  and  hereVas  Ulrica 
herself  lending  him  the  very  aid  he  required. 


g6  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"  She  makes  no  sign,"  he  said,  as  both  Mrs.  Cogger  and  the  maid  bent 
over  her.  "  Well,  perhaps  it  is  better.  I  will  carry  her  home,  and  let  her 
wake  to  see  the  things  that  I  scattered  about  her  in  our  new  first  happi- 
ness." 

He  knelt  beside  her,  and  drew  her  once  more  into  his  arms. 

"  Lor',  ma'am,  ain't  he  fond  aud  good?"  whispered  the  maid  in  Mrs. 
Cogger' s  ear. 

The  devotion  «f  the  pretended  husband  had  worked  its  way  with  both 
women,  and,  as  for  Mr.  Cogger,  he  had  lurched  sheepishly  out  of  the 
room.  Fainting  ladies  were  not  much  in  his  way. 

"  Have  you  fur  to  take  her  ?  "  inquired  the  buxom  landlady. 

Horace  Mott  shook  his  head. 

"  We  live  in  the  country,"  he  said,  caressing  Ulrica's  cold  hand  with  his 
lips ;  "  but  1  shall  take  her  to  my  London  house.  My  carriage  is  at  the 
door.  Poor,  pretty  darling !  Did  she  think  she  could  be  lost  from  me  ?  I 
traced  her  easily.  And  now,  if  you  bring  me  her  luggage,  if  she  has  any — 
her  cloak  and  things  —  I  will  carry  her  away  with  me. "  • 

"  But  is  it  safe  ?  Won't  she  be  ill  ?  Better  let  her  wait  till  she  comes 
round,"  Mrs.  Cogger  said  as  the  barmaid  ran  up-stairs  at  his  bidding. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Unfortunately  I  have  seen  her  in  these  faints  before.  She  is  delicate  ; 
her  nerves  have  been  unstrung.  She  may  remain  unconscious  for  some 
time.  I  will  send  for  her  doctor  as  soon  as  we  arrive  home. " 

The  maid  brought  down  the  cloak,  hat,  and  veil,  and  a  few  odds-and- 
ends  she  had  found  lying  about. 

"There,  madam,  that  is  for  your  trouble  and  kindness."  Mott  put 
down  a  five-pound  note.  "  And  that  is  my  address,  should  you  want 
me." 

He  gave  her  a  fictitious  name,  both  of  himself  and  of  the  locality  ;  then, 
throwing  the  cloak  over  Ulrica,  he  lifted  her  easily  in  his  arms,  and  with 
the  aid  of  the  two  women,  who  were  profuse  in  their  thanks — for  he  had 
slipped  a  sovereign  into  the  maid's  hand  too  —  carried  his  precious  burden 
to  the  carriage  waiting. 

He  placed  Ulrica  in  one  corner,  sprang  in  himself,  uttered  the  magical 
word  "  Home,"  and  was  whirled  away. 

"  Ah,  any  one  can  see  that  he's  a  real  gentleman,"  observed  Mrs.  Cogger 
triumphantly,  holding  up  the  bank-note  to  her  husband's  eyes. 

Mr.  Cogger  smoked  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes  ;  his  ruddy  face  looked 
very  solemn. 

"  That's  a  lot  of  pay  for  little  work,  Liza,  ain't  it  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Sup- 
pose she  ain't  his  wife  ?  The  poor  young  thing  didn't  have  no  chance  to 
speak,  and  her  face  was  kind  of  horror-stricken  when  she  see  him  first.  I 
'ope  it's  all  right." 

Mrs.  Cogger  sat  down  suddenly. 

"  Lor',  Jim,  suppose  it  isn't,  and  she  so  nice  and  pleasant-spoken,  too!" 
The  good  woman's  countenance  paled  a  little  suddenly.  "  That  'ud  be 
awful ;"  then  her  face  lightened.  "  But  what  a  fool  I  am.  See,  he's  left 
his  haddress,  so  it  must  be  all  right.  Look  for  yourself!" 

Mr.  Cogger  read  the  card,  and  then  nodded  his  head. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  is;  but  I  didn't  kind  o'  like  the  looks  of  him  quite, 
Liza,  and  that's  the  truth. " 

On  rolled  the  swift  wheels  of  the  carriage ;  the  shop-lights  flashing  in  at 
the  windows  shone  on  the  girl's  white  face,  and  showed  the  watcher  that 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  97 

the  motion  of  the  carriage  was  recalling  life  to  the  pallid  lips  and  heavy 
eye-lids. 

Ulrica  moved  faintly.  She  was  conscious  of  a  beating  and  thumping  in 
in  her  ears,  and  the  whirr  of  incessant  turmoil  around  her. 

A  maze  of  disturbed  color  floated  before  her  eyes ;  at  one  time  myriads 
of  stars  seemed  glittering  in  the  gloom  ;  then  all  was  dark  —  a  heavy  black 
darkness  that  woke  a  faint  indefinable  thrill  of  fear  in  her  slowly  throbbing 
heart. 

Horace  Mott  gazed  at  her  eagerly.  Sfee  was  very  tardy  in  coming  to 
herself,  for  which  he  was  thankful. 

He  uttered  curses  at  the  horses  for  their  slowness,  yet  their  speed  was 
as  fast  as  could  be  expected  in  a  crowded  thoroughfare. 

At  last  he  drew  his  breath.  They  were  near  their  destination.  The  car- 
riage stopped  in  a  quiet  spot,  and  he  leaped  out. 

Vague  terrors  filled  Ulrica's  brain ;  she  was  dimly  conscious  of  being 
lifted  from  some  dark  place,  carried  swiftly,  it  seemed,  up-stairs,  and  then 
laid  gently  on  some  soft  cushions  in  a  room  filled  with  delicious,  faint  fra- 
grance, and  lit  by  tender,  rose-hued  lights. 

She  struggled  to  a  sitting  position.  The  vague  dream  became  now  each 
instant  more  real,  more  acute ;  her  trembling  lips  tried  to  utter  a  cry,  but 
the  sound  was  frozen  on  them,  as  looking  round  feverishly,  her  eyes  rested 
on  the  form  of  Horace  Mott. 

With  a  sudden  access  of  strength,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  one  hand  resting 
on  the  couch. 

"  Where  am  I?  How  dare  you  come  near  me!  Oh,  Heavens!  what 
has  happened  to  me  ?  "  She  grew  ghastly  white  again,  and  her  lips  only 
whispered  the  words :  "  What  place  is  this  ?  " 

He  stood  calmly  by  the  fire,  a  smile  of  triumph  on  his  lips. 

"  This  is  your  home,  Ulrica ! "  he  said  coolly  and  distinctly. 

"  My  home!"  she  breathed  rather  than  spoke.  Her  limbs  were  quiver- 
ing with  weakness  ;  she  felt  sick  and  cold.  She  passed  one  hand  over  her 
eyes,  as  if  to  dispel  the  present  vision,  then  gradually  sank  onto  the  couch, 
numb  with  dread  and  overwhelming  fear. 

"  Yes,  your  future  home,"  continued  the  man  ;  "  do  you  like  it?  Come, 
let  me  lead  you  round,  and  show  you  my  treasures  —  yours  now. " 

He  advanced  towards  her  and  stretched  out  his  hand,  but  Ulrica  recoiled 
from  him  as  from  a  deadly  poisonous  snake,  her  great  distraught  eyes  fixed 
on  him,  wide  with  her  disgust  and  fear. 

"  Don't  touch  me !  "  she  murmured  almost  passionately  ;  "  don't  come 
near  me!  I — I  can't  understand  all  yet  ;  but  I  begin  to  know  some  of  the 
truth.  I "  — she  stopped  for  an  instant  —  "  I  am  in  your  power." 

He  met  her  eyes  full ;  the  smile  never  died  from  his  lips. 

"You  are,"  was  all  he  said. 

Ulrica's  head  drooped ;  she  did  not  utter  a  scream  or  an  exclamation ; 
she  seemed  overwhelmed. 

"  Ulrica,"  said  Mott,  touched  for  an  instant  by  her  silent  abject  misery, 
"  you  need  not  fear  me.  I  have  told  you  that  I  love  you  "  —  she  shud- 
dered slightly,  but  he  took  no  heed  —  "  and  as  I  love,  so  I  honor  you.  I 
have  brought  you  here  against  your  will,  because  I  knew,  once  free,  you 
would  never  give  yourself  to  me.  Now  —  well,  now  you  must  ;  for  though 
I  respect  you,  though  I  hold  you  to  be  the  purest  of  God's  creatures  on 
earth,  the  world  henceforth  would  not  judge  you  so.  Were  I  even  now  at 
this  moment  to  open  wide  my  doors  and  bid  you  go  forth,  it  would  be  use- 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  99 

less.  No  ;  it  may  be  mean,  it  may  be  a  coward's  act,  but  it  is  done — your 
good  name,  that  priceless  treasure  of  a  lonely  woman,  is  taken  from  you  if 
you  leave  me  now  but  as  my  wife.  You " 

Ulrica  stopped  him;  she  knelt  at  his  feet. 

"  Are  you  a  man?  "  she  whispered  in  broken  sobs.  "  If  so,  in  pity's  name 
let  me  go!  I  could  not  be  your — your  wife,  when  every  breath  in  my 
body,  every  beat  of  my  heart,  is  given  to  —  to  him!  Let  me  go  —  oh, 
have  pity;  be  merciful!  I  am  in  your  power,  and  I  plead  to  you  —  see,  I 
kneel  to  you !  By  all  you  hold  holy;  by  the  name  of  your  mother ;  of  your 
God,  I  — I " 

The  words  died  away;  she  sank,  crouched  before  him  ;  a  dark  shadow 
passed  over  his  face,  his  lips  were  compressed;  he  stooped  and  lifted  her. 

"  Let  us  have  no  more  of  this.  My  mind  is  made  up.  Once  settled,  I 
never  alter.  In  a  day's  time  you  must  become  my  wife.  This  will  be  your 
apartment  till  then.  Everything  you  want  you  shall  have;  but  my  wife 
you  shall  be!" 

"  There  is  no  law  to  make  me,"  Ulrica  said,  suddenly,  as,  in  an  instant, 
all  weakness,  tears  and  womanly  pleading  fell  from  her.  She  spoke  coldly 
and  resolutely. 

He  frowned.     He  knew  the  truth  of  this  well. 

Only  by  touching  her  on  the  subject  of  her  honor  could  he  bring  her 
round. 

He  was  silent  only  for  one  second. 

"  True,  there  is  no  written  law,  but  there  is  one  existing,  nevertheless. 
Go  back  to  the  world.  Try  to  make  your  living.  Where  will  you  get 
employment  with  the  taint  and  whisper  of  shame  on  your  name?  Will 
your  lover  receive  you,  or  your  friends  take  your  hand?  Try  them." 

"  And  this  you  call  love ! "  said  the  girl,  quietly,  yet  so  contemptuously 
that  he  winced.  "You  love  me;  yet  you  first  sully  my  honor  —  my  self- 
respect  —  before  you  try  to  win  even  a  passing  thought  of  esteem  from  my 
heart.  I  would  rather  starve  in  a  gutter  —  die  in  the  street  —  than  become 
your  wife !  Let  me  go.  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  world.  It  is  only  those 
who  have  sinned  that  need  fear.  There  is  no  sin  in  my  life  —  God  is  my 
witness  to  that.  All  shame  that  comes  upon  me  now  is  of  your  bringing 
—  you,  who  profess  to  love  me  !  Love!  You  cannot  comprehend  —  you 
cannot  understand  —  the  beauty,  the  depth,  the  holiness  of  true  love !  It 
came  to  me,  and  will  never  go.  The  very  thought  of  such  a  nature  as 
yours  makes  me  shudder;  the  very  touch  of  your  hand  is  pollution !  A  man 
to  have  spoken  as  you  have  spoken  —  acted  as  you  have  done — is  no 
longer  a  man.  He  is  a  devil ! " 

The  flood  of  passionate  words  poured  from  her  pallid  lips  with  a  vehe- 
mence that  astounded  Horace  Mott.  He  gazed  at  her  lovely  face,  white 
as  carven  marble,  silently  as  she  ceased,  then  broke  into  a  short  laugh. 

"  Bravo ! "  What  an  actress  you  would  make !  Upon  my  word,  I  think 
I  must  have  you  trained  for  the  stage.  You  are  more  lovely  now,  Ulrica, 
than  I  have  ever  seen  you.  Yes  ;  I  think  I  like  you  better  roused  than 
placidly  beautiful !  " 

The  girl's  head  drooped  with  shame  ;  she  drew  her  cloak  round  her,  and 
turned  to  the  door.  The  heat  of  her  agitation  was  fleeting  fast,  and  with 
it  her  strength  ;  she  trembled  in  every  limb. 

"After  the  words  I  have  spoken,"  she  whispered  rather  than  said, 
"  there  is  only  one  course  open  to  you.  I  refuse  to  be  your  wife,  neithei 
threats  nor  entreaties  will  move  me,  therefore  let  me  go.  The  world  is 


IOO  HER  FATAL   SIN. 

wide,  we  need  never  meet  ;  perhaps  before  long  a  merciful  peace  and 
oblivion  may  come  to  me.  It  will  be  welcome,  for  the  burden  of  crime 
and  shame  that  has  fallen  upon  me  is  almost  more  than  I  can  bear  ;  it  has 
broken  my  heart.  What  have  I  to  live  for  now  ?  This  is  the  last  request 
I  shall  make  to  you :  let  me  go  now,  and  you  will  atone  for  all  that  has 
gone  before ! " 

She  had  moved  towards  the  door,  but  he  stepped  before  her  and  laid 
his  hand  on  hers. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  be  discourteous,  but  refuse  you  I  must.  You  have 
spoken  hard  words  to  me,  but  that  will  not  alter  my  purpose.  As  I  have 
compromised  you,  so  I  act  as  a  man  ought,  and  lay  my  hand  and  heart  at 
your  feet,  and  if  you  are  so  quixotic  as  to  refuse  this  reparation,  then  I 
must  act  for  you,  and  decline  to  permit  you  to  think  for  yourself.  In  plain 
words,  Ulrica,  I  am  your  master,  and  I  intend  to  be  obeyed." 

Horace  Mott  regarded  her  quietly,  then  walked  to  the  fireplace  and 
rang  the  bell. 

A  middle-aged  woman,  clean  and  very  respectable,  answered  the  sum- 
mons. She  evinced  no  surprise  at  seeing  Ulrica,  but  turned  her  whole 
attention  on  her  master. 

"  Graves,"  said  he,  "you  must  wait  on  this  lady;  give  her  everything  she 
requires.  She  will  remain  here  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  will  become  my 
wife,  our  marriage  taking  place  by  special  license.  Remember,  she  is  your 
mistress;  her  commands  are  your  laws." 

"Yes,  sir  —  I  understand,"  answered  Graves. 

"  Good,  then.     Come  with  me  for  one  instant ;  I  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

Horace  Mott  strolled  leisurely  towards  the  girl's  crouching  figure. 

"  Silly  child !  "  he  said  half  contemptuously.  "  Dry  your  tears.  What 
use  in  railing  at  your  fate?  It  can't  be  altered  now,  and  your  eyes  are 
much  too  glorious  to  ruin  in  this  way.  Good-night  I " 


CHAPTER  XV. 

«  TTND  is  that  all?  "  inquired  Dr.  Strong. 

/I  He  was  sitting  at  a  writing-table;  before  him  was  a  man  —  an  in- 
describably shabby,  dirty,  genteel-looking  person. 

The  room  was  large  and  airy;  from  the  windows  could  be  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  wildest  thoroughfare  in  London  —  it  was  the  Langham 
Hotel.  An  inner  room  joined  in  which  was  a  bed  with  curtains,  etc. 

"  Yes,  sir,  that's  all.  We  traced  the  young  lady  quite  easy  like  to  this 
public-house;  she  stayed  there  three  days,  and  then  she  went  away  with  a 
gentleman  in  a  carriage. " 

Guy  rose  softly  and  closed  the  door  leading  into  the  bedroom. 

"  We  must  find  her, "  he  said  decidedly  to  the  detective.  "  Have  you  no 
further  clew  ?  " 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"None,  sir,"  he  answered;  "though  I'm  bound  to  say  I  still  am 
suspicious.  That  landlady,  Mrs.  Cogger,  seemed  so  confused  like  when 
we  went  and  questioned  her." 

"  She  has  been  taken  away — she  never  went  willingly,"  Guy  declared, 
as  if  to  himself. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  IOI 

"  That's  what  I  mean,  sir,"  the  detective  chimed  in  hurriedly  ;  "  I  think 
the  landlady  knows  more  than  she  will  say,  but  I  can't  get  anything  further 
out  of  her." 

"We  must  think." 

Guy  walked  up  and  down  with  a  white  set  face.  It  was  a  horrible 
dilemma.  Ulrica  was  gone  —  worse,  was,  in  all  probability,  in  the  power 
of  this  cniel  villain  Mott.  How  to  act  ?  What  to  do  ?  In  the  inner 
room  lay  John  Dunworthy,  ill,  prostrate  with  the  blow  that  had  come 
upon  him,  unable  to  give  one  helping  hand  ;  he  had  to  think,  to  plan  all 
by  himself. 

"  Me  and  my  mate  are  willing  to  do  anything  in  our  power,  sir,"  said 
the  detective,  as  he  watched  the  man  struggling  with  his  thoughts.  "  Per- 
'  haps  if  you  was  to  come  to  the  landlady,  it  would  do  some  good." 

Guy  lifted  his  head. 

"  Yes,  I  will  do  that,"  he  answered  at  once. 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  Sir  John's  man  appeared. 

"  Gryce,"  he  said,  "  remain  by  your  master  till  I  return ;  he  must  not  be 
disturbed,  remember." 

"  Very  well,  sir. " 

Gryce  helped  him  on  with  his  coat,  and  then  nodding  to  the  detective  to 
follow,  Guy  passed  out. 

Gryce  sat  obediently  in  the  room  for  a  while,  reading  the  newspapers, 
then  he  stole  softly  to  the  bedroom.  The  sick  man  lay  dozing  uneasily  ; 
he  needed  nothing. 

The  valet  turned  his  attention  out  of  the  window,  yawning  the  while 
most  drearily. 

Suddenly  he  looked  round.  The  door  had  opened,  and  a  kdy  stood  in 
the  room. 

Gryce  was  at  once  the  obsequious  servant ;  notwitstanding  the  thick  black 
veil  and  heavy  cloak  he  recognized  the  guest  at  once. 

"  Go  to  No.  15;  Lady  Dunworthy  has  arrived;  she  is  asking  for  you. 
This  is  Dr.  Strong's  room  ?  Yes ;  then  I  will  wait  for  him." 

Gryce  bowed,  and  hurried  away,  and  once  alone  Connie  Wren  threw 
back  her  veil  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

Her  face  looked  really  pretty  with  its. triumphant  expression  ;  there  was 
a  fire  in  her  cold  eyes,  and  a  flush  of  color  on  her  fair  cheeks. 

"  At  last  —  it  has  come  at  last ! "  she  muttered,  stealing  softly  to  the  sick 
man's  side ;  "  in  all  my  plans  I  never  dreamt  of  this.  How  ill  he  looks! 
Well,  I  will  cure  him." 

She  threw  off  her  cloak,  sank  into  a  chair  beside  the  bed,  and  tend- 
erly laid  her  hand  on  the  man's  fevered  brow. 

Sir  John  moved  uneasily  beneath  her  touch  at  first,  but  then  it  seemed 
to  soothe  him,  and  he  murmured  some  confused  whispers  in  which  the  eager 
listener  caught  the  name  Ulrica. 

"  Always  her !  "  she  thought  to  herself  with  a  frown.  "  Will  he  never  for- 
get her?  She  has  deceived  him,  brought  shame  and  disgrace  upon  herself, 
and  yet  he  thinks  only  of  her.  Bah  I  I  am  a  fool !  I  must  give  him  time. 
Then,  Madame  Ulrica,  we  shall  see  who  will  triumph  in  the  end !  " 

Sir  John  moved  again  several  times,  then  opened  his  heavy  eyes. 

At  first  agleamofjoy  shot  into  them  as  he  saw  a  woman's  form  beside 
the  bed,  then  that  vanished,  and  he  sighed  wearily  as  he  said  with  diffi- 
culty: 

"  Miss  Wren  —  Connie  —  you  here  1    Where  —  where  is  Strong?  " 


102  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"  Dr.  Strong  will  be  here  directly.  I  am  come  to  nurse  you,"  whispered 
Connie,  slipping  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  dropping  her  voice  to  a  gen- 
tle tender  cadence.  "I  want  to  help  you  —  to  comfort  you  now  in  your 
great  trouble  —  to  do  all  I  can  to  —  to  —  bring  her  back. " 

Sir  John  carried  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  You  are  good,"  he  said  slowly  —  "  very  good.     I  thank  you." 

Connie's  heart  throbbed  ;  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

"  Is  —  is  my  mother  here?  "  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

Connie  nodded. 

"  But  she  shall  not  trouble  you  —  I  will  not  let  her.  Ah,  Sir  John,  think 
of  me  as  a  friend  —  a  sister  ;  trust  in  me  and  believe  me. " 

The  man  turned  his  face  towards  her  ;  her  soft,  womanly  words  fell  on 
his  wounded  heart  like  heavenly  balm. 

"  I  do,"  he  whispered  fervently  ;  "  I  do,  indeed.  You  are  an  angel  of 
goodness.  If —  if  you  will  help  me  now,  you  will  do  more  for  me  than  I 
can  say. " 

Connie  only  smiled  sweetly  ;  then  she  sat  beside  him  till  his  eyes  closed 
once  again  in  sleep,  and  his  weary  turmoil  of  thoughts  were  lost  in  peace- 
ful oblivion.  . 

*  *  *  *  *  **** 

For  a  long  while  Ulrica  sat  thinking.     What  was  she  to  do  ? 

Horace  Mott's  cruel,  sinister  face  rose  before  her,  and  brought  with  it  a 
shudder  of  dislike  and  fear  ;  the  very  thought  of  his  words  stung  her  to 
madness. 

Marriage  with  him  —  become  the  wife  of  a  liar,  a  villain,  such  as  he! 
Never ! 

And  yet  even  as  she  thought  this  her  hands  trembled,  her  heart  sank.     . 

What  could  she  do?  How  escape  from  this  prison  and  its  horrible  alter- 
native ?  Graves,  could  she  not  bribe  her  ?  But  with  what  ? 

Jewels  she  had  none,  and  in  her  purse  there  was  one  solitary  gold  coin 
beside  a  few  shillings. 

Ah,  a  thought  came.  She  caught  her  dress  in  her  hand  eagerly  —  hur- 
riedly. She  remembered  the  draft  Mrs.  Loudon  had  sent.  She  had  not 
posted  it  back  ;  she  would  give  that.  Her  hands  searched  the  pocket ;  it 
was  empty.  Then  she  had  been  robbed  also.  Her  last  chance  was  gone. 

Tears  were  dried  up  at  their  source  ;  she  sat  like  a  statue  carven  in  mar- 
ble, and  was  in  this  attitude,  when  a  slight  noise  caused  her  to  start  up- 
right as  Graves  came  in. 

"  You  have  taken  my  purse  and  letter,"  cried  Ulrica  feverishly.  "  Give 
them  back  to  me  at  once.  Oh,  why  are  you  so  wicked,  so  cruel  to  me  ? 
Don't  you  see — can't  you  see  I  am  brought  here  against  my  will  ?  That 
man  has  dared  to  drag  me  here  when  I  was  senseless  and  could  not  help 
myself.  He  is  a  coward,  and  he  is  my  greatest  enemy !  Oh,  woman  — 
woman !  Help  me  ;  don't  shut  off  your  sympathy  and  your  pity  from  me ; 
indeed — indeed,  I  want  it.  I  am  alone  —  utterly  alone  in  the  world  ;  only 
a  girl,  with  no  mother,  no  friends — no  one  to  whom  I  can  turn.  You  are 
a  woman  —  perhaps  you  yourself  have  a  daughter.  Ah,  I  see  by  your  face 
you  have!  Then,  for  her  sake  —  for  the  sake  of  this  girl  who  is — who 
must  be  dear  to  you,  help  me  now !  I  cannot  marry  this  man  —  I  cannot 
—  I  cannot ! " 

Graves  looked  down  at  the  slender  form,  with  masses  of  warm  brown 
hair  tossed  about  the  shoulders,  and  for  one  instant  a  passing  expression  of 
pity  dawned  on  her  face.  It  was  gone  the  next  instant. 


HER   FATAL   SIN. 


I03 


"  I  cannot  help  you,"  she  said,  stooping  and  lifting  the  girl  to  her  feet ; 
*  besides,  why  do  you  ask  me?  Mr.  Mott  wishes  to  marry  you.  Surely  there 
is  nothing  dishonorable  in  that  ?  If  he  had  wished  to  harm  you,  or  to 
shame  you,  he  could  have  done  so  a  dozen  times ;  but  he  brought  you  to 
me.  You  have  been  in  my  care  ;  he  has  not  even  remained  in  the  house 
since  he  left  you  last  night.  Surely  you  are  foolish !  A  man  cannot  do 
more  than  make  a  woman  his  wife,  and  that  he  loves  you  I  can  easily  see. " 
"  Loves  me !  "  cried  Ulrica  bitterly.  "  Oh,  what  poor  —  what  despica- 
ble love!  I  tell  you  I  pleaded  to  him  last  night  to  let  me  go.  I  told  him 
I  could  never  marry  him,  and  what  did  this  good,  this  honorable  man  de- 
clare ?  That  he  had  ruined  my  reputation,  sullied  my  good  name,  and  that 
if  I  would  live,  I  must  marry  him.  Love,  indeed !  Oh,  he  loves  me  greatly ! " 
Graves  was  silent  for  an  instant. 

"  Perhaps  he  was  wrong  to  say  that,"  she  observed  after  a  while  ;  "but 
you  must  have  angered  him  or  he  would  never  have  done  so.  I  know  Hor- 
ace Mott  well ;  he  is  a  true,  a  brave,  good  man  ;  he  has  proved  it  to  me. 
I  speak  as  I  have  found  him." 

Ulrica  stared  at  the  woman ;  she  was  almost  enthusiastic  ;  but  as  she 
met  the  girl's  surprised  look,  the  enthusiasm  vanished ;  she  was  once  more 
the  stolid,  hard  woman. 

"  Will  you  let  me  help  you  to  dress,  madame  ?  "  she  asked  deferentially. 
"  You  refuse  to  give  me  any  assistance  to  escape  ?  " 
Ulrica  looked  up  quietly. 

"  Yes,"  Graves  said  as  quietly  ;  "  my  promise  is  pledged  to  Mr.  Mott. 
Years  ago,  I  gave  him  my  word  that  if  ever  I  could  repay  him  for  an  action 
he  did  for  me,  I  would  do  so.  Three  days  ago  he  came  to  me  and  claimed 
my  promise  ;  it  was  to  help  him  marry  you.  I  do  not  seek  to  know  why 
he  wants  that  help  —  it  is  sufficient  to  me  that  he  does  need  it,  and  so  I 
give  it  to  him.  A  promise  with  me  is  as  sacred  as  an  oath.  I  cannot 
break  it. " 

"  Not  if  you  know  that  you  are  helping  him  to  do  that  which  is  worse 
than  cruel — which  is  a  sin  ?"  asked  the  girl  very  quietly,  though  she  trem- 
bled in  every  limb. 

The  woman  nodded  her  head. 

"  The  motive  is  not  my  affair,"  she  said  coldly.  "  I  am  not  curious.  I 
want  to  know  nothing.  As  I  said  before,  if  he  wishes  to  marry  you,  there 
can  be  no  dishonor. " 

"  There  can  be — there  is  !  "  cried  Ulrica  wildly.  "  Dishonor!  contam- 
ination !  horror  !  Oh,  think  —  think  if  your  daughter  were  in  my  place, 
pleading  for  aid,  would  not  your  heart  break  ?  " 

The  soft  look  came  once  more  over  Graves'  countenance. 
"  It  is  of  her  I  am  thinking.  She  was  wronged,  her  life  was  ruined. 
Horace  Mott  avenged  her  wrong.  He  gave  her  peace  at  the  last  ;  he 
forced  her  betrayer  to  marry  her  before  she  died.  When  I  learnt  this  I 
vowed  to  give  him  whatever  he  should  ask.  I  have  known  him  for  years  — 
from  a  boy.  Once  again,  before  my  lips  are  sealed,  I  tell  you  he  is  true, 
he  is  brave,  he  is  good  ;  he  does  you  no  dishonor  in  offering  you  marriage; 
rather  should  you  rejoice  in  winning  such  a  man  for  your  husband.  I  have 
done.  I  shall  say  no  more.  Breakfast  is  served  in  the  next  room  ;  I  will 
wait  for  you  there." 

She  passed  through  the  curtains  as  she  finished,  leaving  Ulrica  plunged 
fcto  a  maze  of  troubled  thoughts,  predominant  among  which  was  th«  one 
*"•*  that  helg  was  refused  her,  and  she  had  to  face  the  future  alone. 


104  HER   FATAL  SIN. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

T  .IKE  one  in  a  dream  Ulrica  performed  her  toilet.  Had  she  been  asked 
J_I  to  describe  what  her  sensations  were  that  dull  November  morning,  she 
would  have  shaken  her  head. 

To  fathom  the  true  nature  of  her  heart  was  a  task  beyond  her.  She 
seemed  to  be  another  being,  existing  in  another  sphere.  A  century  of 
years  seemed  stretched  between  herself  and  the  happy  Ulrica  glorying  in 
golden  love,  affection  and  friendship. 

The  memory  of  Sir  John  and  her  misery  lived  in  her  thoughts,  but  the 
acuteness  of  the  pain  was  merged  into  a  dull,  vague  sense  of  oppression 
and  dread. 

Graves  glanced  at  the  girl's  white  face  with  a  momentary  feeling  of  pity. 
It  was  still  beautiful,  but  it  was  the  face  of  one  who  was  crushed  beneath 
a  mental  burden  that  threatened  to  overwhelm  her  altogether. 

She  had  spread  a  dainty  breakfast. 

"Come  and  eat,"  she  said  quietly.  "You  have  tasted  no  food  for 
hours. " 

Ulrica  shook  her  head. 

"  I  cannot  eat ;  the  food  would  choke  me. " 

Graves  looked  at  the  slender  form  in  the  black  dress. 

"  You  have  more  trouble  than  the  thought  of  this  marriage.  Wha^  is 
it  ?  "  she  asked  suddenly,  almost  involuntarily. 

Ulrica  turned  her  wondrous  star-like  eyes  upon  the  woman. 

"  My  heart  is  broken,"  she  said  quietly,  but  unutterably  sadly,  "  and  my 
life  is  ended. " 

"  You  are  young  to  say  that." 

"I  am  not  yet  twenty,"  Ulrica  replied,  dreamily  gazing  into  the  fire; 
"and  yet " — here  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her  heart — "  here  I  seem  an  old 
woman,  worn  down  with  weariness,  with  grief,  with  —  shame. " 

"There is  no  shame  in  your  young  life,  if  faces  can  be  trusted." 

Graves  said  this  as  if  to  herself. 

Ulrica  gave  a  sigh. 

"  And  yet  dishonor  will  cling  to  me  till  I  die. " 

The  woman  opened  her  lips,  but  she  checked  herself,  and  turning  to  the 
table,  said  no  more. 

Ulrica  left  the  fire  and  went  to  the  window. 

There  were  houses  opposite — big,  cold,  sententious-looking  places. 
Not  a  face  was  to  be  seen  at  any  window.  There  was  an  air  of  calmness 
and  quietness  that  struck  the  new  comer  with  a  chill  of  discomfort.  To 
Ulrica  it  made  no  feeling  at  all ;  she  gazed,  but  she  was  scarcely  conscious 
of  what  she  saw.  Her  limbs  were  trembling,  her  head  heavy ;  she  had  a 
pain  in  her  throat. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  ill,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  with  a  prolonged  shiver 
she  went  back  to  the  fire.  "  Perhaps  I  shall  die. " 

She  sat  on  a  low  chair,  bending  to  the  blaze,  which  did  not  warm  her 
chilled  limbs  ;  and  then,  so  weak  had  she  grown,  she  swallowed  obediently, 
but  with  difficulty,  the  food  Graves  brought  to  her. 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  10$ 

The  woman  stood  looking  down  at  her  as  she  sank  back  and  closed  her 
eyes. 

"  Am  I  doing  right?  "  muttered  Graves  to  herself.  "  Her  poor  distraught 
face  goes  straight  to  my  heart;  and  yet  —  I  have  promised  —  I  cannot  go 
back.  Horace  Mott  could  not  be  the  villain  she  says,  or  he  would  never 
have  done  what  he  did  for  my  poor  Florrie.  No,  no;  I  must  trust  him.  I 
must  keep  my  promise;  yet  I  wish  she  had  not  asked  for  help — it  troubles 
me." 

She  withdrew  softly,  and  Ulrica  lay  before  the  fire;  she  had  dropped  into 
a  doze,  and  the  clock  ticked  on  musically  in  the  silence. 

Suddenly  Ulrica  woke  from  her  sleep,  her  heart  beating  wildly,  her  head 
reeling;  instinctively  she  felt  that  the  hour  of  her  struggle  had  come. 

There,  with  his  arm  resting  on  the  broad  marble  mantel-piece,  a  smile  of 
triumph  mingling  with  the  glow  of  unrestrained  passion  and  admiration  in 
his  eyes,  stood  Horace  Mott,  watching  her  earnestly. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  gayly,  "my  poor,  pale  darling,  have  you  no  word  for 
me?" 

Ulrica  pressed  her  hand  to  her  throbbing  heart;  she  called  all  her  courage 
to  her  rescue,  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  I  have  a  few  words, "  she  said  in  a  voice  that  sounded  weak  and  strange 
to  her  own  ears,  "  and  they  are  but  a  repetition  of  what  I  said  to  you  last 
night.     Give  me  my  —  my  freedom;  let  me  go ! " 
He  only  smiled. 

"  Still  on  the  same  tune !  I  thought  we  arranged  all  that  most  completely 
last  night.  I  don't  feel  disposed  to  open  the  subject  again." 

"  Have  you  no  pity? "  murmured  the  girl,  dropping  her  face  for  an 
instant  on  her  hands.  As  she  lifted  it  again  she  went  on  slowly:  "  Why 
do  you  treat  me  like  this?  What  harm  have  I  ever  done  you?  You  came 
across  my  path  like  a  serpent.  God  knows  I  had  little  happiness  in  my 
young  days,  and  you  broke  the  golden  glorious  gladness  that  had  just  come 
to  me." 

"  Let  us  be  correct,"  Horace  said  coolly,  glancing  at  his  reflection  in  the 
mirror,  and  caressing  his  mustache.     "  It  was  not  I  who  shattered  your 
happiness ;  it  was  the  knowledge  of  your  father's  crime.     You  seem  to 
forget  that  you  are  the  daughter  of  a  murderer. " 
The  girl  shivered  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

"Forget!"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  God,  it  is  written  on  my  heart  in 
letters  of  fire  —  the  shame,  the  horror  of  it !  " 

He  watched  her  with  a  slight  sneer  as  she  sank  into  the  chair,  and  there 
was  silence  between  them  for  awhile. 

By-and-by  she  lifted  her  head  and  passed  one  cold  hand  across  her 
eyes. 

"  Mr.  Mott,"  she  said,  faintly  but  clearly,  "  once  more,  for  the  last  time, 
I  ask  you  to  be  generous.  I  cannot  marry  you — let  me  go.  I  am  not 
afraid  of  the  world.  I  have  suffered  so  horribly  the  last  few  days,  I  fear 
nothing  now.  To  marry  you  would  be  a  sin  —  a  mockery.  You  know 
my  feelings  towards  you,  and  as  a  man  —  a  man  with  a  spark  of  courage 
and  honor  about  him,  I  beg  you  to  release  me  from  this  place  and  to 
promise  me  I  shall  be  free  from  you  forever. " 

A  dark  scowl  had  settled  on  his  face  ;  he  had  his  arms  folded  across  his 
breast.  He  looked  at  her  quietly  for  an  instant,  then  said,  slowly  and 
deliberately  : 

"  Well,  you  may  go ! " 


IO6  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

Ulrica  rose  with  strength  born  of  the  rush  of  delight  to  her  heart 
and  brain. 

"  God  bless  you !  "  she  said  hurriedly,  clasping  her  hands  tight  together ; 
"  I  knew  you  would  hear  me.  Forgive  me  for  all  the  hard  things  I  have 
said,  but — but  I  was  driven  to  utter  them.  We  will  forget  all  that  is 
past,  and  say  good-bye  now,  for  we  shall  not  meet  again." 

She  turned  away,  and  was  moving  to  the  inner  room  to  get  her  cloak, 
her  heart  still  thrilling  with  the  wonderful  relief,  when  his  voice,  clear  and 
cold,  rang  after  her  : 

"Stay!" 

Ulrica  turned  round,  and  then  she  knew  that  she  had  mistaken  him. 
There  was  no  generosity,  no  sympathy,  no  manly  honor  in  Horace  Mott. 

"  I  say  you  may  go,  but  first,  had  you  not  better  hear  my  conditions?" 

Ulrica  unconsciously  drew  nearer,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  I  offer  you  once  more  my  hand  in  marriage,"  Horace  Mott  went  on 
very  quietly.  "  Once  more,  do  you  refuse  to  become  my  wife  ?  " 

"  I  do —  I  must ! "  broke  from  the  girl's  lips  faintly. 

"  You  ask  for  freedom  ;  you  may  go  —  go  now,  but  as  surely  as  you  re- 
fuse to  become  my  wife,  as  surely  as  you  leave  me,  so  surely  will  I  strike 
you  to  the  heart,  for  I  will  kill  your  lover,  John  Dunworthy ! " 

He  met  the  great  sapphire  eyes,  full  of  unspeakable  dread,  calmly  with 
half  a  smile. 

"  Now  I  bid  you  go.  You  are  free,  but  you  are  warned.  Perhaps  you 
have  doubts  that  I  would  carry  out  my  threat ;  try  me  —  that  is  all.  I 
know  I  am  behind  my  time ;  men  do  not  kill,  you  would  say,  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  for  pique  or  dislike  ;  no,  but  they  murder  for  hatred,  for 
jealously,  for  love  —  the  love  such  as  lives — burns  in  my  heart  for  you, 
Ulrica." 

He  strode  over  to  the  girl,  snatched  her  two  hands  in  his,  and  gazed  into 
her  white  stricken  face  with  eyes  that  shone  like  fire.  She  could  not  strug- 
gle, she  could  not  release  herself;  his  horrible  threat,  his  words,  ran  before 
her  eyes,  and  beat  into  her  ears. 

"  You  have  your  choice,"  he  went  on  hurriedly  and  passionately ;  "  reject 
me,  defy  me,  and  your  lover  shall  be  dead  before  a  week  is  over.  Ah,  I 
can  do  it,  and  I  swear  to  you  I  will,  if  you  set  yourself  against  me.  Your 
answer  —  give  me  your  answer !  What  is  it  to  be  —  peace  or  war?  War 
to  the  bitter  end?  " 

"  Well  ?  "  breathed  Horace  Mott. 

"  How  can  I  fight  with  you  ?  "  she  said,  coldly,  contemptuously,  yet 
heart-brokenly ;  "  our  weapons  are  not  equal.  You  have  won.  For  his 
sake  —  the  man  I  love  better  than  life  itself — I  give  myself  to  you  —  the 
man  I  hold  the  most  despicable,  the  most  cowardly,  the  most  horrible  of 
all  God's  creatures ! " 

Horace  Mott  laughed,  but  he  winced  nevertheless. 

"  Hard  words,  my  beautiful  Ulrica  —  hard  words  !  "  he  said,  tightly  fold- 
ing his  arms  round  her,  and  drawing  her  shivering  reluctant  form  close  to 
him ;  "  but  they  do  not  wound  me.  I  knew  you  must  yield.  I  have  arranged 
everything.  In  two  hours'  time  we  shall  be  man  and  wife,  then  let  him 
come  between  us  who  dares ! " 

He  drew  her  head  to  his  shoulder,  bent  his  lips  and  kissed  her  cold  ones 
long  and  passionately. 

Ulrica  lay  silent,  still,  as  though  life  itself  was  extinct. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  IO7 

She  did  not  repulse  him.     She  had  submitted,  and  the  victory— poor, 

pitiful  victory,  such  as  it  was  —  was  his. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  **** 

The  November  fog  crept  into  the  church  like  a  gray  spectre  that  would 
not  be  rested.  It  lingered  and  wreathed  itself  round  the  stone  pillars,  it 
hung  over  the  altar  and  its  dim  religious  light. 

No  speck,  no  gleam  of  sunshine  broke  the  gray  gloom. 

The  echoes  hollowed  and  returned  from  the  arched  roof;  the  stillness 
and  strange  loneliness  were  like  the  silence  of  a  tomb. 

Before  the  altar  was  a  small  group  of  people.  A  girl,  clad  in  a  black 
dress,  a  cloak  about  her  slender  graceful  form ;  a  hat  that  shadowed  but 
could  not  hide  her  white,  haggard  young  face  ;  a  man,  nonchalant,  darkly 
handsome  and  resolute;  a  woman,  ordinary  looking,  in  bonnet  and  shawl, 
standing  behind  the  bride ;  the  clerk,  with  open  book  for  the  responses, 
and  the  priest  of  God. 

It  was  Ulrica's  marriage.  She  heard  the  solemn  tones  ring  out  through 
the  vast  silent  church,  but  she  heeded  them  not.  She  was  wondering,  in 
a  vague  Jdull  way,  if  the  clergyman  would  perform  the  ceremony  if  he 
knew  the  truth. 

Her  lips  repeated  the  words  she  was  bade  say,  but  she  repeated  blindly, 
mechanically,  as  a  child  heedless  of  their  sense  or  meaning.  She  knelt  and 
rose  obediently  at  the  clerk's  whisper,  but  she  did  it  all  as  in  a  dream. 

It  seemed  to  her  another  being  who  stood  there  in  the  gray  cold  mist, 
taking  the  solemn  vows  of  love  and  duty  to  Horace  Mott.  She  lived  only 
in  a  vague,  dark  shadow,  incomprehensible  and  mysterious. 

The  clergyman  was  struck  by  the  girl's  pale  beautiful  face,  and  might 
have  had  his  doubts,  had  not  Horace  Mott  warned  him  that  the  marriage 
had  to  be  performed  quietly,  as  the  bride  was  mourning  the  loss  of  her 
father,  and  the  traces  of  trouble  he  would  read  in  her  face  were  from  this 
grief. 

The  last  word  was  said ;  they  knelt  in  silence  for  a  few  seconds  ;  then, 
taking  his  wife's  cold  limp  hand  in  his,  Horace  Mott  drew  her  into  the 
vestry.  • 

He  hastily  scrawled  his  name  in  the  register,  and  put  the  pen  into  Ulrica's 
fingers. 

She  hesitated  at  first,  as  if  she  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  it,  but  the 
clergyman  gently  guided  her  hand  to  the  line,  and  she  wrote  her  maiden 
name  for  the  last  time. 

Graves  then  attested  it  and  the  clerk. 

"  Good-by,  Mrs.  Mott,"  said  the  clergyman  courteously,  and  kindly  hold- 
ing out  his  hand  ;  "  we  may  not  meet  again,  but  I  wish  you  every  possible 
happiness  in  your  married  life.  You  are  very  young,  and  may  expect 
that."  Then  turning  to  Mott,  he  said  with  half  a  smile:  "You  must 
take  your  wife  away  to  some  sunny  clime ;  her  cheeks  seem  to  have  lost 
their  roses." 

"  We  start  at  once  for  the  South  of  France,  and  that  will  soon  restore 
her,"  Horace  Mott  replied  with  a  show  of  great  warmth.  "  This  church 
is  rather  cold  this  gloomy  weather;  let  us  hope  the  rest  of  the  day  may  be 
brighter.  Come,  my  darling,  we  will  go. " 

They  turned  away;  Ulrica  had  said  nothing,  and  again  a  doubt  crept  into 
the  clergyman's  mind  at  her  strange  manner  and  white  face. 

Graves  followed  quietly;  against  herself  she  was  sorely  troubled.  Ulrica 
had  unconsciously  touched  this  hard  woman's  heart,  and  this  hasty  mar- 


I08  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

riage,  the  girl's  eyes  full  of  dawning  horror,  struck  her  afresh  with  com- 
punctuous  pangs  and  pity. 

At  the  church  door  Horace  Mott  turned. 

"  You  may  go,  Graves;  you  have  done  all  I  required.  Here  is  a  ten- 
pound  note ;  celebrate  our  wedding  how  you  like.  I  am  sure  you  made 
Mrs.  Mott  so  comfortable  that  she  will  return  to  your  house  when  we 
come  back  from  France. " 

Graves  took  the  note;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Ulrica's  white,  drawn 
face.  Knowledge  of  all  had  returned  to  the  girl ;  she  no  longer  dreamt, 
she  was  horribly  alive  to  everything. 

The  older  woman  looked  at  her,  and  half  timidly  put  out  her  hand. 

"  I  hope  from  my  heart,  madam,  that  you  will  be  happy.  I  shall  be  both 
gratified  and  honored  if  you  will  return  to  my  house. " 

Ulrica  took  no  notice  of  the  hand  held  out;  she  turned  her  wondrous 
violet -gray  eyes  on  the  speaker  slowly. 

"  You  refused  me  help  when  I  needed  it  most.  I  hope  I  shall  never  see 
you  again. " 

"  Come,  that  is  scarcely  cordial,"  observed  Horace  Mott,  a  little  ill  at 
ease. " 

Graves'  face  flushed  crimson,  but  only  for  an  instant. 

"  I  would  have  helped  you  a  hundred  times  if  I  had  not  promised.  Mr. 
Mott  brought  happiness  to  my  child,  and " 

"  That  will  do,"  curtly  broke  in  Ulrica's  husband;  "I  know  all  about 
your  gratitude.  Good-morning.  Come,  Ulrica. " 

Graves  stood  watching  them  as  they  went  down  the  steps  to  the  street, 
and  walked  away. 

A  mist  of  unshed  tears  was  in  her  eyes;  she  had  not  wept  for  years. 

"  God  forgive  me  if  I  have  done  wrong ! "  was  her  prayer  as  she  went 
slowly  to  her  home. 

Horace  Mott  drew  Ulrica's  unresisting  hand  through  his  arm. 

"  We  must  walk  to  a  cab,"  he  said  tersely —  the  church  was  out  of  the 
beaten  track  —  "  then  you  must  have  lunch,  buy  yourself  some  clothes,  and 
we  will  leave  for  Liverpool  to-night.  Are  you  not  curious  to  know  where 
I  am  taking  you  ?  " 

Ulrica  made  no  reply. 

"  Your  lips  are  so  pale,  your  cheeks  so  thin,  my  darling,  that  I  have  de- 
cided on  a  sea-voyage.  A  trip  of  seven  or  eight  days  is  the  thing  for  you, 
so  I  have  secured  our  berths  in  the  Oregon,  and  we  sail  for  New  York 
to-morrow. 

Ulrica  still  said  nothing,  and  he  bit  his  lip  as  he  glanced  ever  and  anon 
at  her  white  set  face. 

"  By  Heavens !  I  will  break  her  indifference  —  turn  her  hatred  to  plead- 
ing and  love  —  if  I  have  to  kill  her !  "  he  muttered  to  himself. 

A  hansom  crept  near  them  at  this  instant,  and  he  hailed  it. 

They  were  soon  whirled  into  the  bustling  streets .  Ulrica  was  entirely 
ignorant  of  what  part  of  the  city  she  was  traversing.  She  had  been  con- 
veyed in  a  four-wheeler  from  Graves'  house,  and  even  had  she  tried  to  dis- 
cover the  locality,  the  dense  fog  hanging  over  everything  would  have 
prevented  her.  Now  she  cared  not  where  she  went,  having  one  wish  only 
in  her  broken  heart  —  that  she  might  die,  and  end  her  despairing  shame 
and  misery. 

The  cab  drew  up  at  a  restaurant  in  Regent  street.  Horace  Mott  got  out, 
and,  with  an  imperative  movement  of  the  hand,  made  the  girl  do  likewise. 


HER  FATAL  SIN  109 

He  ordered  a  luncheon,  and  called  for  the  papers.  His  orders  were 
obeyed  promptly,  and  a  budget  of  journals  placed  at  his  hand. 

He  ceremoniously  pushed  some  society  papers  towards  Ulrica,  and 
mechanically  she  opened  them.  Reading  was  far  from  her  intention,  but 
the  printing  was  a  relief  from  the  picture  of  that  dark,  handsome  face 
opposite,  smiling  with  arrogant  triumph  upon  her. 

Horace  Mott,  secure  in  the  success  of  his  plans,  gave  himself  up  to  a 
few  minutes  enjoyment  of  the  day's  news.  He  had  not  progressed  far  when 
a  faint  sound,  almost  a  moan,  came  to  his  ears. 

He  looked  up  hurriedly.  Ulrica  was  gazing  at  the  printed  page  with 
wide  distraught  eyes,  and  a  face  grown,  if  possible,  paler  and  thinner. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  inquired  in  a  quick,  low  voice. 

She  did  not  move  or  speak,  and  drawing  the  paper  towards  him  he  saw 
at  once  the  cause  of  her  suffering.  It  was  only  a  few  lines  : 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  Sir  John  Dunworthy  lies  dangerously  ill  at 
the  Langham.  Lady  Dunworthy  is  up  from  the  castle  to  nurse  her  son, 
who  is  in  the  hands  of  the  best  physicians,  aided  by  Dr.  Strong.  I  also 
understand  that  Sir  John  Dun  worthy's  marriage  is  postponed  indefinitely." 

Horace  Mott's  lip  curled  with  a  triumphant  sneer  ;  he  tossed  the  paper 
back. 

"  Poor,  weak  fool ! "  was  all  he  said. 

In  her  heart  Ulrica  was  saying  over  and  over  again  : 

"  111  —  dangerously  ill  —  dying,  perhaps,  and  it  is  I  who  brought  him  to 
this —  I  who  will  have  killed  him ! " 

She  sat  as  in  a  trance,  heedless  of  the  many  glances  expressive  of  admir- 
ation, astonishment,  and,  in  some  cases,  pity,  turned  on  ner.  She  would 
have  sat  on  for  hours,  had  not  Mott  savagely  broken  in  on  her  mute  agony. 
*  "  Eat — you  must  eat,"  he  whispered ;  then  he  ordered  some  champagne 
and  poured  her  out  a  glass. 

Ulrica  swallowed  a  few  mouthfuls  of  soup,  but  would  not  touch  the 
wine,  and  seeing  that  force  in  this  public  place  was  worse  than  useless, 
Horace  Mott  affected  a  composure  he  was  far  from  feeling,  paid  the  bill, 
and  drawing  her  hand  through  his  arm,  led  her  away. 

Once  in  the  street  his  jealous  anger  burst  forth. 

"  If  you  dare  to  think  of  that  man  again,  I  will  kill  him! " 

Ulrica  turned  her  head  slowly,  and  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  Are  you  king  of  my  heart?  Can  you  control  my  thoughts?  "  she  asked 
him  in  a  strange  manner. 

They  were  the  first  words  she  had  addressed  to  him. 

He  laughed  half  confusedly ;  something  in  the  girl  whom  he  had  so 
cruelly  forced  to  become  his  wife  brought  a  wave  of  self -shame  over  him. 
It  was  gone  the  next  moment. 

"  No ;  but  I  can  your  life, "  he  cried.  "  And  what  is  more,  I  will. 
Henceforth  you  are  mine  —  mine  alone.  Understand,  you  are  my  slave. 
If  I  order,  you  must  obey.  It  is  just  as  well  to  give  you  your  lesson  early; 
it  will  prevent  mistakes. " 

A  great  flood  of  burning  resentment  and  womanly  pride,  fed  by  her 
hatred  and  contempt,  suddenly  welled  up  in  Ulrica's  heart. 

They  were  in  Bond  street  now,  approaching  a  crossing.  Gorgeous  car- 
riages filled  the  roadway,  throngs  of  smart  people  the  pavements.  A  wild 
unconquerable  thought  came  into  the  girl's  overburdened  mind  to  free  her- 
self from  his  hold  and  escape.  She  drew  her  hand  quietly  from  his  arm. 

Horace  Mott  was  not  conscious  of  this ;  he  was  looking  eagerly  from 


110  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

right  to  left  to  effect  a  safe  crossing,  when  suddenly  Ulrica  slipped  from  his 
side.  He  tried  to  grasp  her  cloak.  She  was  gone,  and  was  just  before 
him.  Uttering  a  fierce  imprecation,  he  strode  after  her. 

There  was  a  loud  shout  of  confusion,  a  babel  of  cries  and  voices,  and 
Ulrica,  turning  with  heaving  heart  and  wild  frightened  eyes,  saw  the  form 
of  her  husband,  her  gaoler,  her  foe,  lying  in  the  mud,  a  senseless,  inanimate 
form  beneath  the  prancing  feet  of  a  terrified  horse. 

The  sight  horrified  her  —  it  seemed  to  magnetize  her.  She  stood  rooted 
to  the  spot,  spell-bound  with  the  sickness  of  horror. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"TvOZENS  of  people  immediately  rushed  to  the  scene  of  the  accident ; 
\-J  the  policeman  was  shouting  to  the  alarmed  coachman  and  occupants 
of  the  carriage  ;  exclamations  of  horror,  surprise,  pity,  rose  from  the 
crowd.  No  one  remarked  the  slender  figure  in  the  black  cloak  standing 
with  white  distraught  face  and  hands  clenched  tightly  together;  all  attention 
was  turned  on  the  injured  man. 

As  in  a  dream,  Ulrica  saw  them  lift  him  from  the  road  to  a  shop;  her 
eyes  were  glued  on  his  inanimate  form;  but  as  she  saw  him  carried  away, 
with  horrible  blood-stains  and  torn  clothes,  she  gave  a  deep,  shuddering 
sigh,  and  grasped  a  lamp-post  to  prevent  herself  from  falling. 

A  sympathetic  woman  noticed  her  then. 

"  Horrible  sight;  wasn't  it?  You  look  quite  pale;  go  and  get  something 
warm.  These  sort  of  things  don't  do  no  one  no  good ! " 

Ulrica  murmured  some  unintelligible  words,  and  turning,  walked  up 
Bond  street  at  a  nervous,  agitated  speed.  Suddenly  a  sense  of  wild  relief, 
almost  delight,  had  come  in  the  midst  of  her  horror.  She  was  free  —  free 
from  this  man  whom  she  dreaded  and  feared ! 

Ulrica  was  rich;  she  possessed  two  rings,  in  one  of  which  gleamed  three 
diamonds.  She  hesitated  for  one  moment  to  take  anything  that  had  been 
his;  she  was  almost  flinging  them  into  the  mud;  but  stern  necessity  lay 
before  her,  so  she  refrained. 

Drawing  her  hat  well  over  her  brow,  she  entered  a  jeweler's  shop,  and, 
with  a  voice  that  shook  with  shame,  offered  her  rings  for  sale. 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  We  don't  buy  second-hand  things, "  he  said  off  hand.  "  You  had  better  go 
to  a  pawnbroker's,  you  know  —  where  they  will  advance  you  money  on  your 
goods.  There  is  one  close  by,  in  Duke  street." 

Ulrica  thanked  him  and  went  away.  The  young  man  looked  after  her 
and  whistled. 

"  Strange !  "  he  observed  to  his  companion;  "  quite  a  new  wedding-ring, 
too !  The  old  story,  I  suppose  —  been  taken  in. " 

Ulrica  asked  her  way  to  Duke  street,  and  timidly  entered  the  pawn- 
broker's. 

To  her  ioy  she  got  five  pounds  on  the  two  rings  —  a  fifth  part  of  the 
diamonds'  value,  but  to  her  a  fortune  —  and  then,  with  the  money  tightly 
clasped  in  her  hands,  stood  debating  what  to  do  next. 

She  must  get  away  somewhere  and  be  lost,  for  if  —  her  color  faded  again 
—  if  he  were  not  badly  hurt,  he  would  search  for  her,  and  then  —  well,  death 
itself  would  be  preferable. 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  Til 

A  longing  to  know,  to  be  satisfied,  came  over  her.  She  would  go  back 
to  the  scene  of  the  accident.  She  remembered  the  way  well.  It  was  grow- 
ing quite  dark  now  as  she  hurried  along  ;  to  her  it  seemed  years  since  the 
morning. 

Bond  street  was  comparatively  empty  now  ;  the  carriages  were  bowling 
swiftly  homewards,  the  passengers  hurrying  to  their  cozy  firesides,  no  one 
to  recognize  the  pale  trembling  girl  as  she  hurried  on. 

She  reached  the  corner  where  her  freedom  had  come ;  no  sign  of  the 
horror  remained.  A  policeman  was  marching  solemnly  along ;  to  him  she 
went. 

"  Please  can  you  tell  me  anything  about  the  accident  that  happened  here 
this  afternoon  ?  Was  —  was  the  gentleman  killed  ?  " 

The  man  answered  her  civilly;  the  question  did  not  surprise  him,  for 
everyone  spoke  of  the  accident. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  that,  miss,"  he  said,  "but  they  know  over  at  that  shop. 
I  think  he  was  took  to  St.  George's  Hospital,  but  I  ain't  sure. " 

Ulrica  was  thanking  the  man  faintly,  and  was  about  to  go  on,  when  an- 
other policeman  sauntered  up,  and  in  answer  to  his  mate's  question,  said  : 

"  He  were  agoing  to  the  'ospital,  but  they  found  his  address — some 
chambers,  1  think,  and  he's  took  there.  Was  you  wanting  to  know,  miss?  " 

He  looked  sharply  at  Ulrica. 

"  No,  no  ;  only  sorry.  I  wanted  to  inquire  for  him,"  she  managed  to 
say. 

"  Ah,  it  seems  a  sad  thing  like.  'Pears  the  gent  was  only  married  this 
morning  ;  must  have  been  going  to  join  his  wife  in  a  hurry  or  something  ; 
they  found  his  marriage  lines  in  his  pocket  along  of  his  letters.  Quite  a 
romance,  ain't  it,  miss?  But  he  ain't  so  badly  hurt,  only  cut  and  shaken  a 
good  bit.  They  say  he'll  be  all  right  in  a  week  or  so." 

"  Yes,"  whispered  the  girl,  moving  away  with  faltering  footsteps  ;  "  quite 
a  romance. "  Once  away,  the  horror  and  fear  returned  in  full  force;  she 
put  her  hand  on  some  railings  close  beside  her,  and  looked  up  to  the  dark 
sky.  "  Oh,  God,"  she  prayed,  "  keep  me  from  him.  I  am  in  bitter  sorrow, 
help  me  to  bear  it ;  give  me  strength,  let  me  not  murmur,  but  submit  to 
Thy  will." 

The  faint  whisper  broke  from  her  overcharged  heart,  seeming  to  ease 
her  ;  a  sense  of  comfort  stole  over  her.  What  sin  had  she  done  in  all  her 
young  life?  God  was  not  punishing  her  for  her  wickedness ;  she  was  chosen 
to  bear  much,  but  as  He  chastened  her,  so  was  she  loved. 

She  grasped  the  friendly  railings  fora  few  minutes  longer,  then  deter- 
mined to  push  on,  secure  some  place  for  the  night,  and  then  make  her 
plans. 

Ulrica  went  slowly  on  ;  once  more  she  was  in  Regent  street,  though  this 
she  did  not  know. 

She  hurried  out  of  the  bustle  and  confusion  in  search  of  some  quieter 
spot ;  surely  she  could  find  a  rest  until  morning? 

On  and  on  she  dragged.  Sometimes  she  stopped  hesitatingly  before  a 
shop,  thinking  to  go  in  and  ask  for  directions,  then  the  fear  of  being  found 
or  known  sent  her  on. 

At  last  she  came  to  a  standstill ;  she  was  beside  a  church,  in  front  of  her 
stretched  a  great  huge  building,  gas-light  and  fire-glow  gleaming  from  its 
numerous  windows.  A  respectable-looking  laundress  was  on  the  pavement, 
resting  her  basket.  Ulrica  summoned  up  courage. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  she  said  faintly,  almost  too  weak  to  speak,  "  where 


112  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

—  where  I  could  get  a  bedroom  for  the  night,  cheap,  respectable,  not  too 
far  ?  " 

The  woman  looked  at  her  curiously;  she  noted  the  rich  cloak,  and 
wondered. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  I  lets  rooms,  but  then  it  wouldn't 
be  good  enough. " 

"  Oh,  yes  —  yes,"  murmured  the  girl ;  " anything  will  do." 

"You  look  ill,"  remarked  the  woman,  picking  up  her  basket ;  "  tired,  I 
expect.  Well,  I'll  take  you  gladly.  You  look  a  lady.  If  you  are  afraid 
of  me,  you  can  go  in  there  ;  they'll  answer  for  me  at  the  Langham,  I  know  ; 
I  have  worked  for  them  often. " 

"  The  Langham ! "  gasped  Ulrica,  sinking  back. 

The  woman  put  down  her  basket,  and  at  this  moment  a  gentleman  was 

gassing ;  he  was  about  to  step  into  the  road  to  avoid  a  drunken  woman,  as 
e  thought,  when  the  exclamation  from  the  laundress  arrested  him. 

"  Poor  thing  !  she's  fainted. " 

In  an  instant  the  man  was  beside  her. 

"  Can  I  help  you  ?     I  am  stronger  than  you." 

He  spoke  kindly,  and  by  the  lamp-light  the  laundress"  saw  he  was  a 
clergyman. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  sir.  I  don't  know  who  she  is ;  but  she  was  just 
a-coming  home  to  take  a  bedroom  of  me  for  the  night,  when  she  falls 
down  like  this. " 

The  clergyman  stooped  and  looked  into  the  girl's  face. 

"Great  Heavens!"  he  exclaimed.  "Mrs.  Mott!  Why,  this  is " 

He  stopped,  all  the  doubt  that  had  grown  in  his  heart  that  morning  as  he 
spoke  the  marriage-service  over  Ulrica's  bent  head,  the  uncomfortable 
thoughts  that,  together  with  the  memory  of  her  pale,  beautiful  counte- 
nance, had  haunted  him  all  day,  were  verified. 

"  Do  you  know  her,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  woman. 

The  clergyman  glanced  round  over  the  fast-growing  crowd,  and  his  de- 
termination was  soon  made. 

"  Yes,  I  know  her, "  he  answered.  "  I  will  take  her  home.  Call  a 
cab. " 

So  before  the  very  building,  in  a  room  of  which  lay  John  Dunworthy 
fighting  for  life  in  the  throes  of  brain  fever,  was  stricken  down  the  girl  he 
loved  beyond  all  else  —  the  girl  who  had  stunned  him,  shocked  him,  broken 

his  heart  —  the  girl  Ulrica  Messenger. 

*****  **#  ** 

Mrs.  Cogger  was  much  alarmed  at  the  second  appearance  of  the  detect- 
ive, in  company  this  time  with  Guy  Strong. 

She  was  not  wont,  as  a  rule,  to  set  much  store  by  her  husband's  opin- 
ions, but  this  time  she  was  bound  to  confess  that  in  his  slow,  heavy  fashion, 
he  had  jumped  at  something  like  the  truth. 

Tears  came  to  her  eyes  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks  as  Guy  questioned 
her  closely,  his  agitation  and  distress  making  him  appear  to  her  terribly 
stern. 

"  Oh,  dear,  sir,  I  can't  say  how  grieved  I  am !  The  pooi  young  thing, 
and  I'd  grown  to  like  her,  although  she  was  only  here  a  few  days.  But 
could  he  be  so  wicked  ;  he  seemed  so  fond-like  ?  " 

"  You  tell  me  she  fainted  almost  immediately  she  saw  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  the  very  instant  ;  but,  of  course,  we  thought  it  was  because 
she  was  worn  out  with  trouble,  and  the  sudden  sight  of  her  husband 


FATAL   SIN.  IIJ 

knocked  her  over.  It  was  all  done  so  hurriedly,  too  ;  me  and  Jane  was 
quite  flustered.  Here's  the  haddress  the  gent  gave  me ;  but  this  person 
tells  me  there  ain't  no  such  place.  Oh,  sir,  I  do  hopes  you  will  believe  I 
would  have  cut  my  hand  off  sooner  than  have  helped  that  Door  young 
creature  into  more  trouble. " 
y  Then  Guy  woke  from  his  own  musing  at  her  distress. 

"  I  do  believe  it,"  he  said,  with  one  of  his  rare  smiles  ;  "but  when  you 
deal  with  villainy  such  as  this,  you  must  be  armed  at  all  points.  Don't 
accuse  yomrself  of  anything.  I  am  sure  your  face  speaks  the  truth,  and 
goodness  is  written  on  it. " 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  sir !  "  exclaimed  poor  Mrs.  Cogger ;  "  but  can't  I  help 
you  ?  Oh,  is  there  nothing  I  can  do  ?" 

"  Nothing,  I'm  afraid.  We  must  employ  more  detectives  ;  for  she  must 
and  shall  be  found,  if  human  brains  and  hands  can  do  it  ?  " 

Guy  held  further  conference  with  the  detective  before  he  returned  home, 
The  only  available  clew  they  had  was  the  coachman,  whom  Mrs.  Cogger 
declared  she  would  know  again,  and  to  find  him  Guy  could  think  of  no 
better  method  than  advertising. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  Langham,  he  found  Dunworthy  fast  asleep,  with 
Connie  sitting  beside  him. 

Guy  greeted  her  gently,  but  frowned  a  little  when  he  heard  that  Lady 
Dunworthy  had  traveled  up  to  nurse  her  son,  and  was  at  that  instant  in 
the  hotel. 

"  She  must  not  excite  him, "  he  declared ;  "  his  brain  is  now  in  the  most 
inflammatory  condition." 

"  I  will  keep  her  away.     You  may  depend  on  me. " 

While  she  was  speaking,  Connie  was  plotting. 

"  I  must  be  friends  with  him,  or  he  will  prevent  my  seeing  Sir  John.  I 
suppose  his  one  and  only  thought  now  is  that  girl. " 

Outwardly  she  observed  gently : 

"  You  look  worn  out.  Rest  a  while.  Have  —  have  you  any  news  ?  " 
The  anxious  inflection  in  her  voice  was  cleverly  done. 

"  No,"  said  Guy  with  a  long-drawn  sigh  ;  "  none  as  yet." 

He  did  not  intend  to  say  much  of  Horace  Mott,  till  he  knew  the  truth. 

"  How  sorry  I  am ! "  murmured  Connie,  uttering  the  lie  easily.  "  He," 
with  a  gesture  to  the  sick-room  —  "  he  is  quite  broken  down  about  it,  poor 
fellow  J" 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"TTRE  you  better?" 

/*L  Ulrica  moved  in  a  vague  strange  way.  The  voice  uttering  these 
words  sounded  curiously  distant,  yet  her  eyes  were  fastened  upon  a  face 
quite  near  at  hand.  She  was  in  bed.  Of  that  she  was  conscious,  for  her 
head  rested  on  a  sweet-smelling  pillow,  over  which  her  masses  of  hair 
were  strewn,  and  her  arms  rested  on  a  snow-white  coverlet. 

"  Are  you  better  now  ?  " 

Ulrica's  senses  cleared  ;  she  turned  her  head  a  little  nearer  the  speaker. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"Safe  with  friends,"  was  the  answer.  "No;  I  know  you  have  never 
seen  me  before.  Still  I  will  call  myself  your  friend  because  I  have  grown 
to  know  you  during  the  last  twenty-four  hours.  Now,  let  me  lift  you,  and 
try  and  drink  this  beef 


114  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

Ulrica  made  no  resistance ;  she  allowed  herself  to  be  pushed  forward  and 
swallowed  the  beef-tea,  but  her  eyes  were  wandering  round  in  a  curious, 
wondering  way.  She  looked  terribly  ill,  her  face  was  almost  gaunt,  but 
the  beauty  of  her  eyes  seemed  increased  rather  than  diminished,  they  shone 
so  large  and  lustrous. 

A  gentle  hand  smoothed  back  her  hair  from  her  brow,  and  as  she  rested 
once  more  on  the  pillow,  the  voice  went  on  : 

"  Now,  I  want  you  to  be  good  and  not  ask  any  questions  just  yet.  You 
must  have  some  more  sleep." 

And  the  speaker  smoothed  the  thin  white  hand  with  her  own. 

She  was  a  woman  of  middle-age,  with  a  plain  but  benevolently  sweet 
face,  and  that  indescribable  air  which  denotes  the  lady. 

She  sat  and  watched  the  girl's  eyelids  close,  and  the  peaceful  touch  of 
slumber  steal  across  Ulrica's  lovely  countenance  before  she  moved.  Then 
a  step  sounded  cautiously  on  the  carpet,  and,  turning,  she  saw  a  man  in 
clerical  dress. 

"  How  is  she  now?  '•  he  whispered. 

"  Better,"  she  formed  with  her  lips. 

They  both  gazed  silently  at  the  unconscious  young  face,  and  then  turned 
away. 

"  Have  you  come  to  any  conclusion,  dear?  "  asked  the  lady,  as  they  went 
softly  into  a  room  adjoining. 

The  clergyman  shook  his  head. 

"  I  was  waiting  to  ask  her  about  herself  when  she  was  well  enough  ;  it  is 
a  case  which  pains  and  perplexes  me.  I  cannot  rid  myself  of  a  reproach  in 
that  I  had  a  share  in  her  marriage." 

"  You  distress  yourself  needlessly,  dear,"  replied  his  wife  gently.  "  How 
were  you  to  know?  You  were  deceived  yourself." 

Dr.  Drewitt  sighed  a  little. 

"  My  mind  misgave  me  directly  I  saw  her  face.  How  beautiful  she  is, 
Agnes,  and  very  young !  " 

"  Quite  a  child  yet." 

Mrs.  Drewitt  was  thoughtfully  silent  for  a  few  moments,  then  she  said: 

"  There  is  a  purse  in  her  pocket;  perhaps  that  would  give  us  some  clew, 
but  I  hesitated  to  open  it.  I  would  rather  she  told  me  her  story  herself. 
Alan,  we — we  cannot  let  her  go  back  into  the  world  without  a  protest. 
Our  home  is  lonely,  and " 

Dr.  Drewitt  took  his  wife's  hand  and  looked  at  her  with  an  inexpressible 
look  of  tenderness. 

"  And  our  child's  place  is  empty  —  that  is  what  is  in  your  heart,  my  wife. 
Well,  unless  we  can  persuade  her  to  go  back  to  her  friends,  should  she 
have  any,  our  home  is  hers. " 

Mrs.  Drewitt  pressed  her  lips  to  her  husband's  hand. 

"  She  has  our  Margaret's  eyes,  Alan,"  she  whispered;  "it  seemed  like  an 

angel  from  heaven  when  she  looked  at  me  last  night  as  you  carried  her  in ! " 
*********# 

For  a  brief  time  the  fog  left  London.  The  mornings  broke  sunshiny  and 
bright.  Ulrica  watched  two  such  mornings  steal  through  the  dawn,  lying 
quietly  in  her  luxurious  bed. 

She  was  not  exactly  ill,  but  an  exhaustion  had  fallen  upon  her  after  the 
horror  of  the  wedding-day. 

In  her  excitement  she  had  walked  miles,  and,  added  to  the  mental  fight 
she  was  enduring,  this  had  prostrated  her. 


Il6  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

Her  thoughts  were  a  confused  muddle  during  the  two  days  she  lay  in  bed 
—  a  mixture  of  bright  sunny  moments,  then  awful  gloom,  then  the  con- 
sciousness of  trouble  lurking  at  every  corner  to  spring  out  and  seize  upon  her. 

Mrs.  Drewitt  brought  her  work,  and  :at  very  quietly  by  the  girl's  side, 
watching  the  emotions  that  flitted  across  Ulrica's  pale  face,  and  wondering, 
with  sad  sympathy,  what  the  truth  of  her  suffering  was. 

It  was  a  source  of  undefinable  comfort  to  Ulrica,  the  presence  of  that 
sweet-looking  woman,  and  in  that  comfort  she  was  content  to  revel  while 
she  felt  so  weak  ;  but  as  her  strength  ebbed  back,  Mrs.  Drewitt's  gentle 
face  recalled  another  —  that  of  Guy's  mother,  and  from  that  her  mind  wan- 
dered on,  over  every  cruel  stone  in  that  pathway  of  mental  sorrow,  shame 
and  misery. 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  the  second  day  that  this  agony  reached  its  height. 
As  Mrs.  Drewitt  sat  sewing  very  quietly,  deep  in  her  thoughts,  Ulrica  sud- 
denly rose  in  the  bed.  She  had  a  flush  on  her  pale  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
were  burning. 

"  Give  me  my  clothes,'"'  she  said,  hurriedly,  in  a  low  choked  voice.  "  I 
must  get  away  at  once ! " 

She  had  all  in  a  second  experienced  the  terrible  dread  and  repulsion  of 
Horace  Mott's  presence ;  her  memory  vividly  recalled  the  fact  that  he  was 
not  dead — not  even  badly  wounded,  but  perhaps,  at  this  very  moment,  on 
her  track. 

Mrs.  Drewitt  rose  quickly. 

"  You  shall  have  your  clothes,  dear,  if  you  want  them,"  she  said,  sooth- 
ingly; "  but  it  is  too  late  to  go  away  now.  It  is  nearly  night  time." 

Ulrica  let  her  hand  be  clasped  in  the  older  woman's  cool  tender  one. 

"  But  he  will  find  me,"  she  whispered,  her  heart  beating  so  wildly  that 
its  throbbing  was  plainly  seen  in  her  fair,  white  throat ;  "  he  will  find  me 
again. " 

"  He  cannot  come  here,"  said  Mrs.  Drewitt,  adopting  that  easy  tone  of 
assurance  always  calculated  to  have  its  effect  on  children  and  invalids.  "  I 
will  take  care  of  you. " 

"  Will  you  ?  >:  Ulrica  turned  her  thin,  eager,  lovely  face  round.  "  Oh, 
God  will  bless  you  !  Help  me  now,  and  you  will  be  blessed  indeed ! " 

Tears  stood  in  Mrs.  Drewitt's  eyes. 

"  You  shall  stay  with  me  for  a  while,  dear,"  she  murmured.  "  You  are 
far  from  strong,  and " 

"  Ah,  but  I  must  get  away !  "  broke  in  the  girl  feverishly.  "  You  don't 
know  him.  He  is  a  fiend.  He  will  find  me !  Yes  —  yes,  I  know  he  will, 
and  he  will  take  me  away,  for  I  married  him  —  I  am  his  wife ! " 

"  You  are  safe  here,"  repeated  Mrs.  Drewitt,  scarcely  knowing  what  to 
say,  but  putting  her  arm  around  the  girl  and  drawing  the  head,  with  its 
masses  of  hair,  gently  onto  her  shoulder. 

Ulrica  rested  back  for  a  while. 

"  Safe ! "  she  murmured.  "  If  I  could  feel  that  —  if  I  could  have  peace. 
But  all  is  such  bustle,  such  noise  ;  and  London  is  so  small,  that  is  the 
misery.  The  Langham!  that  is  the  Langham!  and  Jack  is  there,  ill, 
dying,  all  through  me.  Oh,  Jack,  Jack,  my  love,  my  life !  what  shall  I  do ! " 

The  wandering  words  ended  in  a  burst  of  passionate  sobs.  Mrs.  Drewitt 
did  not  try  to  check  the  tears  or  soothe  the  girl.  She  let  her  weep  on,  only 
holding  her  still  in  her  arms. 

After  a  few  moments  Ulrica  grew  calmer,  then  she  dried  her  eyes  and 
looked  up. 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  117 

"  How  good  you  are ! "  she  whispered,  with  a  broken  catch  in  her  voice, 
"  to  me,  a  stranger.  I  am  better  now  ;  I  will  rest  on  for  a  while." 

"That  is  wise,"  declared  Mrs.  Drewitt,  lightly  pushing  the  pillow  com- 
fortably under  the  girl's  head  ;  "  now,  lie  still  while  I  finish  this  corner  of 
my  work  ;  then  you  may  talk  if  you  like. " 

Ulrica  lay  silent,  obediently  watching  the  busy  needle»flyinand  out ;  the 
flood  of  tears  had  relieved  her  ;  she  felt  calmer  now. 
"  There  ;  I  am  finished !     Now,  shall  we  chat?  " 
Ulrica  turned  her  eyes  onto  the  fire. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  where  I  am  and  how  I  got  here?  "  she  asked  gently. 

"  You  are  in  my  husband's  and  my  house.  Our  name  is  Drewitt.  He  is 
a  clergyman,  and  he  married  you  three  days  ago." 

Ulrica  gave  a  faint  shudder. 

"  He  was  passing  along  the  very  top  of  Regent  street  on  the  evening  of 
the  same  day,  when  by  God's  mercy  he  happened  to  see  you  just  as  you  fell 
to  the  ground  in  a  faint.  Do  you  remember?  " 

"  Yes, "  whispered  the  girl ;  "  I  remember  now. " 

She  closed  her  eyes  as  the  horror  of  that  day  came  back  to  her,  then 
opened  them  as  a  thought  came  hurriedly  to  her  mind. 

"  And  you  have  taken  me  in  and  kept  me  here  ?  Oh,  how  can  I  thank 
your*  I  am  utterly  alone  and  friendless — that  is,"  she  added  slowly,  "I 
must  renounce  my  friends.  There  are  several  who  I  think  would  cling  to 
me,  but  it  is  impossible." 

Mrs.  Drewitt  was  silent ;  she  saw  the  quivering  lips,  and  the  tears  steal 
once  more  into  the  sad  eyes,  and  her  heart  ached  with  her  sympathy  for 
this  girl's  sorrow. 

"  Perhaps  I  —  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  Ulrica  said  hi  very  low  tones  ;  "  it  is 
but  right,  and  yet " 

"  Tell  me  nothing,"  whispered  the  older  woman  ;  "  I  am  content  to  keep 
you  as  you  are.  Your  face  is  your  character  — it  is  enough  for  me." 

Ulrica  pressed  her  hot  lips  to  the  hand  held  out  to  her. 

"Yes,  I  will  tell  you,"  she  said.  "My  —  my  father  was  a  murderer  — 
he  killed  my  mother !  " 

Mrs.  Drewitt's  clasp  just  tightened  on  the  girl's  hand. 

"  That  is  not  your  sin,  my  child,"  she  said  gently. 

"  Then  you  do  not  shrink  from  me  ?  "  Ulrica  cried. 

"  Shrink  from  you !  Why  should  I  ?  "  Mrs.  Drewitt  bent  and  kissed 
the  sweet  face.  "  Now  I  am  going  to  sit  beside  you,  and  you  shall  tell  me 
all ;  it  will  ease  your  heart,  I  think." 

"  It  will — it  will!"  replied  Ulrica  restlessly. 

And  so  with  her  hand  clasped  tight  in  that  of  the  clergyman's  wife,  bit 
by  bit  Ulrica  told  her  history,  dwelling  briefly,  almost  tersely,  on  her  sum- 
mer dream  of  gladness,  then  on  to  the  bitter  end. 

Mrs.  Drewitt  listened  without  a  word  till  Ulrica's  voice  died  away  into 
silence,  then  she  bent  and  kissed  her  again  terTderly. 

"  My  poor  tired  lamb,  the  burden  is  indeed  heavy  for  you  ;  but  be 
comforted ;  there  may  be  sin,  shame  attached,  but  it  is  not  yours.  Let  me 
tell  my  husband  this  story  ;  he  will  give  you  greater  comfort  than  I  can. 
And  turn  to  us,  dear,  as  friends,  who  will  be  firm  to  you  whatever  comes." 

Ulrica  tried  to  speak,  but  words  would  not  come  easily;  she  was 
thoroughly  exhausted  by  her  emotion,  and  by-and-by,  still  clasping  Mrs. 
Drewitt's  hand,  she  fell  into  a  deep,  dreamless  slumber. 


Il8  HER  FATAL  SIN. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

1TTHREE  days  passed  on,  and  Ulrica,  tenderly  nursed  by  Mrs.  Drewitt, 
1  recovered  her  strength  sufficiently  to  rise  and  descend  to  the  pretty 
drawing-room. 

Dr.  Drewitt  knew  all  her  history  from  his  wife,  but  they  naturally  re- 
frained from  speaking  on  this  subject  till  the  girl  was  more  herself. 

It  was  Ulrica,  after  all,  who  first  led  them  to  it. 

She  was  sitting  at  breakfast  in  her  black  dress,  looking  very  pale  and 
wan,  yet  with  all  her  beauty  returned,  listening  to  the  lively  chit-chat  of 
her  kind  host  and  hostess,  when  she  broke  in  on  a  short  silence. 

"  I  have  a  difficult  task  before  me, "  she  said  hurriedly  —  "  that  of  trying 
to  thank  you  both  for  all  your  great,  great  goodness  to  me.  Words  are 
not  easy,  but  God  will  bless  you  for  it ! " 

"  Now,  we  are  not  going  to  talk  about  this,  if  you  please,"  replied  Dr. 
Drewitt  promptly,  as  her  head  drooped  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears;  "  we 
want  to  see  you  smile  and  look  happy,  my  dear. " 

Ulrica  shook  her  head. 

u  I  shall  never  be  happy  again,"  she" said  slowly. 

Mrs.  Drewitt  rose,  and  bending  over  Ulrica,  kissed  her  gently,  saying  the 
while: 

"  You  have  suffered  so  much  that  you  have  grown  tired  and  weak,  but 
after  all,  dear  child,  you  are  very  young  ;  life  for  you  is  just  beginning. 
You  must  try  and  dismiss  these  morbid  thoughts. " 

"  Morbid !"  repeated  Ulrica  with  a  shudder;  "but  they  are  real — hid- 
eously real !  How  can  I  forget  my  dead  mother?  How  can  I  forget  I  — 
I  am  that  man's  wife?  " 

Dr.  Drewitt  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"  Did  Mott  give  you  full  particulars  of  your  mother's  death?  "  he  asked, 
rising  and  walking  to  the  window. 

Ulrica  passed  her  hand  across  her  brow  and  thought. 

"No,"  she  said,  slowly;  "only  —  only  that  she  had  been  murdered 
by " 

"  Hum !  You  tell  me  that  he  forced  you  to  marry  him  by  threatening  to 
kill  Sir  John  Dunworthy?"  continued  the  vicar. 

"  Yes,"  formed  rather  than  spoke  Ulrica's  pale  lips. 

The  mention  of  her  lost  lover's  name  pierced  her  like  a  sword-thrust. 

The  vicar  folded  his  arms  across  his  breast  and  walked  back  to  the  table. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  with  great  decision,  "  it  is  my  belief  that  he  deceived 
you.  Mind,  I  only  say  my  belief.  A  man  to  have  treated  you  as  he  has 
love,  and  so  he  determined  to  force  you  into  his  power.  Where  are  his 
done  is  more  than  a  coward  —  he  is  a  villain.  You  refused  to  listen  to  his 
proofs  of  your  father's  crime?  Let  him  bring  forward  facts ! " 

"He  mentioned  one  man's  name,"  Ulrica  interrupted",  scarcely  speaking 
for  her  agitation  —  Sir  Geoffrey  Denvil.  He  knows  of " 

"  We  will  find  Sir  Geoffrey  Denvil,"  replied  Dr.  Drewitt,  promptly. 
"  This  matter  shall  be  thoroughly,  though  quietly  investigated." 

Ulrica  had  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  now  she  lifted  it. 

"  I  never  stopped  to  think  of  deceit,"  she  said,  almost  dreamily.  "  Some- 
how his  words  seemed  to  be  so  true.  My  young  life  returned  to  me.  No 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  119 

mention  of  my  mother's  name  ;  no  love,  no  friends,  except  Sam ;  all 
strange  —  cut  off,  as  it  were,  from  every  living  thing.  His  —  his  words 
seemed  all  at  once  to  explain  all  this — why  I  had  dreaded  my  father;  why 
I  could  never  love  him. " 

"Still,  I  repeat,  until  I  get  proofs,  I  shall  not  believe  it." 

Ulrica  came  forward  and  took  his  hand,  pressing  her  lips  to  it. 

"  How  good  you  are ! "  she  whispered.     "  How  good !  " 

"  I  said  Alan  would  comfort  you,"  cried  Mrs.  Drewitt,  with  wifely  pride. 

"  Yes;  and  I  mean  to  help  her,  too,"  said  the  vicar,  promptly.  "  There 
are  two  men  we  must  seek  out  at  once  to  make  inquiries  of —  Sir  Geoffrey 
Denvil,  and  this  priest,  Father  Lawrence;  he  will  throw  most  light  on  the 
matter,  I  fancy.  Leave  everything  to  me,  my  dear." 

Ulrica  clasped  his  hand  nervously. 

"  But  if  he — he  finds  me,  must  I  go  with  him?  Oh,  say  I  need  not !  I 
fear  him — I  loathe  him!" 

The  vicar  patted  her  bent  head;  his  eyes  met  his  wife's  and  they  looked 
grave,  but  there  was  only  a  tone  of  lightness  and  comfort  in  his  voice  as  he 
said: 

"  He  has  not  found  you  yet.  '  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil 
thereof.'" 

There  was  a  little  silence,  and  then  Mrs.  Drewitt  came  near  to  Ulrica. 

"  We  have  arrived  at  one  conclusion,  dear, "  she  observed,  slowly.  "  Your 
friend,  Dr.  Strong,  should  know  you  are  safe  and  well;  think  of  his  anxiety 
—  of  the  pain  you  must  have  caused  his  mother  and  himself." 

"Don't,"  pleaded  Ulrica  brokenly — "don't  speak  of  it!  If  you  only 
knew  what  I  have  suffered  when  I  have  remembered  them!  But  I  can't 
see  Uncle  Guy;  he  would  want  to  take  me  back  to  Bathurst,  and  that 
would  kill  me. " 

"  I  appreciate  your  difficulty, "  the  vicar  answered  gently,  "  and  shall 
consider  your  feelings.  Still,  my  child,  you  must  remember  their  anxiety. 
They  love  you;  your  words  have  proved  that.  Then  what  must  they  not 
be  enduring  all  this  time?  You  have  been  in  our  care  for  a  week,  and 
were  four  days  alone  before  that.  You  must  let  me  go  to  Dr.  Strong.  He 
shall  not  *ee  you,  he  shall  not  even  know  your  whereabouts  —  only  he  shall 
learn  that  you  are  safe  and  in  good  hands. " 

Ulrica  sat  silent  as  he  ceased.  How  she  longed  at  that  instant  to  see 
Guy,  to  feel  his  handclasp  and  hear  his  kind  voice !  And  yet,  to  do  that 
would  be  to  deepen  her  suffering,  for  it  would  but  bring  her  nearer  to  Sir 
John  Dunworthy,  whom  she  must  never  see  —  never  think  of  again. 

Then  Dr.  Drewitt's  words  went  slowly,  but  surely  to  her  heart.  She 
must  not  be  selfish  in  her  grief.  It  was  ingratitude  — it  was  worse,  it  was 
cruel  to  keep  Guy  in  suspense. 

Mrs.  Drewitt  watched  her  face,  across  which  flitted  the  various  emotions 
caused  by  her  struggle. 

"  Well,  dear  ?  "  she  said  gently. 

Ulrica  gave  a  quick,  broken  sigh. 

"  Yes,"  she  breathed  hurriedly,  "  it  is  only  right.  Go  to  him;  but  — but 
I  cannot  see  them  —  I  cannot ;  it  would  break  my  heart.  Oh,  sir  —  oh, 
dear  Mrs.  Drewitt,  you  have  been  so  good  to  me,  help  me  still  a  little 
further.  Give  me  some  work,  away  from  here,  in  some  place  where  I  shall 
be  lost,  and  known  to  no  one  I  must  escape  from  that  man,  for  if  he 
finds  me,  he  will  make  me  leave  you  and  go  with  him  ;  and  then  the  disgust, 
the  shame,  the  horror  of  it !  No,  no  ;  I  dare  not  even  think  of  it ! " 


I2O  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"  Be  comforted,"  Dr.  Drewitt  spoke  gently ;  "  we  will  take  care  of  you 
to  the  last  extent  in  our  power.  Will  we  not,  my  wife  ?  " 

"  As  our  own  child,"  was  Mrs.  Drewitt's  answer.  Ulrica  tried  to  speak, 
to  thank  them  ;  but  the  flood  of  emotion  in  her  breast  choked  her  words 

in  the  utterance,  and  hurriedly  rising,  she  went  from  the  room. 

**  *  *  *  *  *  *         * 

<c  To  see  me  ! "  exclaimed  Guy,  looking  up  from  the  letter  he  was  writ- 
ing to  his  mother.  She  was  quite  ill  through  distress,  and  it  went  to  his 
heart  to  write  her  the  daily  record  of  disappointment  and  pain  that  was 
his  lot.  "  A  clergyman,  Gryce,  did  you  say  ?  Show  him  in." 

There  was  a  flush  on  his  worn  face  ;  a  ray  of  hope  had  darted  into  his 
breast. 

As  Dr.  Drewitt  entered  the  apartment,  he  went  forward  hurriedly,  say- 
ing almost  involuntarily,  urged  he  scarcely  knew  by  what  feellings  : 

"  You  have  come  from  Ulrica  —  you  know  of  her  ?  " 

The  vicar  held  out  his  hand  and  Guy  clasped  it ;  a  mutual  thought  of 
liking  and  trust  came  into  their  minds. 

"  Yes  ;  I  know  of  her.     She  is  safe  and  well. " 

Guy's  answer  was  to  turn  away  and  bend  his  head  on  his  folded  arms  on 
the  mantel-piece.  He  could  not  speak  at  first,  the  relief  was  too  great. 
Dr.  Drewitt  respected  his  silence  ;  he  stood  quietly  by  till  the  other  moved 
round  again. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Guy  huskily,  "  but  I  have  suffered  so  much  since  she 
went.  I  am " 

"I  understand,"  observed  the  vicar,  taking  the  chair  Guy  pushed  for- 
ward. 

"Tell  me  all." 

Dr.  Drewitt  sighed  a  little. 

"It  is  a  story  of  woe  and  sorrow  too  heavy  for  that  young  heart,"  he 
began  sadly,  and  then  he  went  slowly  through  all  Ulrica's  misery. 

Guy  started  as  though  he  had  been  struck  a  blow  at  the  mention  of  her 
marriage  ;  he  had  listened  in  a  quiet,  eager  way  to  all  that  went  before. 

"  Married !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  full  of  anguish.     "And  to  him ! " 

"  I  regret  from  my  heart  that  I  did  not  allow  my  doubt  to  prevail.  But 
Mott  was  prepared  on  every  side,  and  his  plausible  tale  of  her  father's 
death,  and  her  consequent  grief,  disarmed  me.  Her  face  haunted  me 
through  the  day.  I  could  not  push  it  from  me,  and  when  I  came  across 
her  lying  fainting  just  beside  this  very  hotel,  I  knew  my  misgivings  had 
been  too  well  founded,  and  there  was  some  wrong  to  be  discovered.  She 
was  ill  for  nearly  four  days,  but  is  now  stronger,  though  my  wife  shakes  her 
head  over  the  girl's  lovely  worn  face." 

Guy  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  then  said  very  unsteadily : 

"  I  must  go  to  her  at  once. " 

Dr.  Drewitt  looked  grave  and  pained. 

"  She  entreated  me  to  prevent  you. " 

"  She  does  not  want  to  see  me ! "  Guy  said  quietly.  Then  he  broke 
out  passionately :  "  Oh,  Ulrica,  Ulrica !  if  you  had  but  trusted  me  —  if 
you  had  but  known ! "  Then  his  passion  went ;  he  crossed  his  arms  across 
his  breast  and  went  on  :  "I  can  never  thank  you  enough  for  coming.  We 
must  consider  what  is  best  to  be  done  for  her  in  every  way. " 

"Can  we  annul  the  marriage?  She  is  a  minor,"  suggested  Dr. 
Drewitt. 

Guy  shook  his  head. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  121 

"  She  is  under  twenty,  but  she  has  no  guardian  appointed  by  law.  I 
have  no  power  to  do  it.  Sam  Loudon  might  have  done  so,  but  he  is 
dead. " 

"  Then,  if  Mott  finds  her,  she  will  be  compelled  to  go  with  him." 

Guy  nodded  his  head. 

"  I  fear  so. " 

"  My  wife  hoped  that  coercion  by  threats  might  be  of  some  value." 

"  Again  Guy  shook  his  head. 

"  Useless,  for  she  was  married  of  her  own  free  will. " 

Dr.  Drewitt  was  silent. 

"  There  is  only  one  way,"  Guy  said  after  a  while,  still  speaking  in  a  set 
mechanical  way,  "  and  that  is  to  keep  her  hidden  from  him,  if  possible. 
Tell  her  she  must  consent  to  see  me.  You,  a  clergyman  of  a  parish,  must 
not  lay  yourself  open  to  any  chance  of  scandal,  which  Mott  would  most 
assuredly  bring  if  he  gets  a  clew  to  her  whereabouts.  I  will  accept  all  the 
responsibility.  I  will  take  her  away,  and  keep  her  with  proper  guardians, 
for  a  time,  at  least. " 

"And  after!" 

Guy  sighed. 

"  It  is  a  terrible  dilemma — for  her,  poor  child,  a  miserable  one," 

"  I  want  to  find  this  Sir  Geoffrey  Denvil,  and  also  the  priest.  The 
memory  of  her  father's  suppposed  crime  is  beyond  her  altogether. " 

Guy  looked  into  the  fire  for  a  few  moments. 

"It  may  be  true,"  he  said  at  last,  almost  reluctantly;  "yet  I  trust  not. 
Certainly  the  circumstances  of  poor  Mrs.  Messenger's  death  were  to  me 
curious.  I  attended  her  for  six  months  before  she  died.  She  had  heart- 
disease,  but  there  was  no  doubt  to  me  that  some  strong  mental  shock  or 
excitement  hastened  her  end. " 

"  There  were  no  marks  of  violence  ?"  asked  Dr.  Drewitt  eagerly. 

"  None,"  answered  Guy. 

His  face  had  grown  more  wan  and  gray  as  the  conversation  went  on ;  it 
looked  now  prematurely  old. 

They  were  in  a  sitting-room  away  from  Sir  John's  apartments,  and  so 
secure  from  interruption. 

Yet,  though  none  but  themselves  were  in  the  room,  a  third  person  over- 
heard them,  and  that  third  person  was  a  woman,  who,  crouched  down 
beside  the  door,  listened  with  an  eagerness  that  made  her  limbs  quiver. 

It  was  Connie  Wren. 

She  had  learned  casually  from  Gryce  that  a  strange  clergyman  had  asked 
for  Dr.  Strong,  and,  with  all  her  shrewdness,  jumped  at  the  conclusion 
that  some  news  had  come  of  Ulrica. 

She  turned  cold  and  sick  at  the  thought. 

Was  she  to  be  the  witness,  after  all,  of  this  girl's  triumph,  and  see  her  own 
«plans  fail  just  as  hope  was  growing  brighter  and  brighter  every  day  ? 

She  stood  for  a  second  plunged  into  an  abyss  of  jealous  fear,  then  felt 
she  could  not  stand  the  suspense  any  longer. 

She  left  her  own  room,  and  stole  down  the  passage  to  the  one  used  by 
Guy.  Fortune  was  in  her  favor. 

There  was  a  second  entrance  and  a  short  passage  to  this  room,  and  here 
in  the  dark,  with  one  eye  on  the  corridor  outside  and  both  ears  turned  on 
the  voices  within,  crouched  Connie. 

Every  now  and  then  she  lost  the  thread,  but  she  heard  enough  to  bring 
the  color  to  her  cheeks,  and  the  light  to  her  eyes,  and  when  Dr.  Drewitt, 


122  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

lifter  a  long  sentence,  uttered  the  words  which  crushed  Guy's  heart  with 
their  hideous  meaning :  "  She  is  Horace  Mott's  wife  —  I  married  them 
myself,"  it  was  all  she  could  do  to  prevent  herself  from  crying  her  joy 
aloud. 

Her  lips  curved  into  a  triumphant  smile ;  her  hands  unceremoniously 
grasped  themselves  together  as  she  listened  on. 

Not  one  single  sympathetic  thought  did  she  bestow  on  Ulrica's  broken 
heart  and  misery ;  she  dreamt  only  of  her  own  glory,  which  would  rise 
immediately  from  the  grave  of  this  girl's  lost  happiness  and  wrecked  life. 

Dr.  Drewitt  talked  long  and  earnestly  to  Guy,  their  manner  business- 
like. To  an  unenlightened  listener,  Guy  might  have  seemed  cold,  almost 
hard,  but  Connie  knew  right  well  that  his  indifference  came  from,  the  flood 
of  agitation  and  the  agony  of  pain  he  was  enduring. 

She  frowned  even  at  this. 

"  What  is  there  in  her,  puny  thing,  that  should  make  them  love  her  ?  " 
was  her  jealous  thought,  as  she  remembered  Guy's  apathy  as  regarded 
herself. 

At  last  the  vicar  rose  to  go,  and  then  the  anguish  in  Guy's  heart  broke 
into  his  voice. 

"I  must  see  her,"  he  said — "I  must;  when  she  is  suffering  as  she  is 
now,  she  wants  none  but  friends  around  her.  Tell  her  she  shall  be  safe;  I 
will  pledge  myself  to  secrecy;  but  entreat  her  to  let  me  come  for  .my 
mother's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  her  old  childish  love  for  Uncle  Guy." 

Dr.  Drewitt  wrung  his  hand. 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can.  That  is  my  name — Drewitt,  St.  Paul's  Vicarage; 
it  is  a  most  unfashionable  neighborhood,  near  King's  Cross —  Netherland- 
road.  My  wife  would  be  glad  to  see  you,  I  know,  if  we  can  win  the  child's 
consent." 

Connie  glided  away  as  the  door  opened,  and  Guy  ushered  out  the  Vicar. 

She  was  far  distant,  thinking  out  her  plans,  as  the  two  men  parted. 

"  Mott  run  over  —  taken  to  his  rooms  —  ill!  Well,  if  he  were  dying  he 
would  be  revenged  on  her,  or  else  I  am  very  much  mistaken.  Let  me  see. 
What  is  his  address?  Fool  that  I  am!  I  must  remember  it — I  must.  I 
knew  it  well." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

TAOWN  in  the  empty  sitting-room  sat  Guy,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 
\-J  "  Gone — lost  to  me  forever!  Oh,  Ulrica,  my  darling!  the  one  crea- 
ture who  makes  life  for  me.  I  would  have  spared  you  every  pain,  and 
now " 

He  rose  after  a  while  and  paced  the  floor. 

"  Now,"  he  mused,  "  all  I  can  do  is  to  shield  you  with  all  my  care  and 
might  from  this  man.  Coward — reptile!  Oh,  that  I  could  have  killed 
him  before  he  ruined  her  life !  But,  with  God's  help,  she  shall  be  kept 
from  him.  It  may  be  a  crime  against  the  law  of  man,  but  it  is  only  justice 
due  to  her  weakness  and  her  broken  heart." 

Little  did  he  think  that  while  he  pondered  and  arranged  this,  a  message 
was  fleeing  to  Horace  Mott,  who,  with  his  arm  bound  up,  his  face  cut  and 
discolored,  was  still  able  to  rise  from  his  chair,  a  triumph  glowing  in  his 
eyes,  as  he  read  the  words  :  "  Go  to  St.  Paul's  Vicarage,  Netherland-road, 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  123 

King^s  Cross,  N.  You  will  find  your  wife  there.  This  from  a  friend  who 
has  discovered  all. " 

He  tossed  the  telegram  onto  a  table. 

"  'A  friend,'  "  he  laughed  as  his  quick  eye  took  in  the  mark  of  the  office 
from  which  the  telegram  had  been  dispatched.  "  A  friend  indeed,  Miss 
Constance  Wren.  Well,  I  am  indebted  to  you.  My  wife  and  I  have  a 

score  to  settle,  and  it  shall  be  done  surely,  quickly. " 

*  *  *  *  *  •  * 

Ulrica  listened  to  Dr.  Drewitt's  account  of  his  meeting  with  Guy  in 
silence.  Every  word  went  to  her  heart.  Guy's  appeal  to  let  her  see  nun, 
his  sorrow,  his  anger  against  Mott,  and  lastly,  his  offer  to  take  her  to  some 
secure  remote  spot,  sank  into  her  breast  with  a  sensation  of  passing  pleas- 
ure and  faint  comfort. 

She  had  never  really  doubted  Guy,  even  when  the  thought  of  her  father's 
crime  had  been  most  terrible,  and  this  proof  of  his  great  goodness  was  like 
heavenly  dew  to  her  poor  blighted  heart. 

Still  she  hesitated. 

Could  she  bear  to  see  him,  hear  him  speak  of  that  one  who  was  as  a  sun 
to  her  existence.  She  had  not  even  dared  to  open  her  lips  to  ask  Dr.  Drew- 
itt  how  Sir  John  progressed,  though  her  every  nerve  thrilled  to  know  the 
worst. 

The  vicar  read  her  white  agitated  face  well,  and  in  gentle  words  told  her 
of  the  improvement  in  the  sick  man's  condition,  as  tenderly  as  though  she 
had  been  nis  own  child. 

When  he  had  finished,  Ulrica  still  sat  silent,  her  hands  lying  nerveless  on 
her  lap. 

"  Give  me  till  to-morrow,"  she  said  faintly,  lifting  her  eyes  at  last.  "  I 
-r  I  cannot  send  Uncle  Guy  an  answer  now. " 

"  Wise  maiden, "  observed  the  vicar,  speaking  briskly.  "  Always  take  a 
night  to  solve  a  difficulty;  things  look  so  differently  by  morning's  light. 
Now  I  wonder  if  you  feel  equal  to  coming  with  us  this  evening  to  a  '  work- 
ing man's  concert?'  " 

Mrs.  Drewitt  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  permit  it,  Alan,"  she  remarked.  "  I  must  still  ex- 
ercise some  little  control  over  my  invalid;  she  will  be  infinitely  better  here 
by  the  fire." 

Ulrica  smiled  a  wan  little  smile. 

"  I  don't  feel  very  strong,"  she  said,  "  or  I  should  like  to  go.  Give  me 
something  to  do.  I  can  sew." 

"  Can  you?  "  laughed  the  vicar's  wife,  determining  to  dismiss  all  sad  top- 
ics, at  all  events  for  a  little  while.  "  Then,  indeed,  I  will  give  you  employ- 
ment. I  would  stay  with  you  to-night,  but  Alan  gets  into  a  complete  fog 
without  me  —  don't  you  now?  Confess,  sir." 

"  I  do  confess  it,  without  a  blush,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  "  You  have 
some  good  points.  Playing  an  accompaniment  to  a  song  is  one  of  them. 
We  shall  have  to  see  what  this  young  lady  knows  of  music,  Agnes,  before 
long. " 

Mrs.  Drewitt  acquiesced  as  she  brought  out  a  pile  of  sewing  and  sorted 
among  it  for  some  small  article  to  give  Ulrica. 

"  I  used  to  singf"  the  girl  said,  gazing  into  the  fire  with  her  lustrous  eyes 
dimmed. 

"  And  shall  again,"  observed  the  older  woman  briskly. 

Ulrica  rose,  and  taking  one  of  Mrs.  Drewitt's  hands,  bent  and  kissed  it. 


£24  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

"  How  can  I  ever  repay  you?  "  she  whispered  brokenly.  "  How  good 
you  both  are — how  good!" 

The  vicar  cleared  his  throat,  and  Mrs.  Drewitt  drew  the  girl  for  an 
instant  into  a  tender  embrace. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,  Ulrica, "  she  said,  "  I  had  a  child  of  my  own.  There 
are  some  troubles,  dear,  that  never  grow  old.  Her  loss  is  one.  But  since 
you  have  been  with  me,  somehow  the  grief  has  been  eased  in  my  heart, 
and  I  have  been  happy;  so  you  see,  my  child,  you  do  repay  me  in  this  sweet 
way. " 

They  stood  clasped  together  for  a  while,  and  the  vicar  went  gently  from 
the  room;  then  Mrs.  Drewitt  smiled  and  released  Ulrica. 

"I  am  going  to  make  you  comfortable,"  she  said  brightly.  "Here  is 
some  work,  and  here  is  a  delightful  book.  I  suppose  it  is  terrible  for  a 
clergyman's  wife  to  own  to  a  taste  for  novels.  Well,  I  do  —  so  don't  be 
shocked.  Sit  here  close  to  the  fire.  Ring  for  anything.  Barlow  will  look 
after  you.  Poor  Barlow !  she  has  been  with  me  for  years  and  years,  and 
she  is  quite  distressed  ahout  your  pale  face.  If  you  are  tired  before  we 
comeback  —  it  may  be  eleven  o'clock  —  go  to  your  little  bed.  Sleep  is 
the  best  thing  for  your  young  brain  and  heart." 

And,  with  a  few  more  gentle  words  and  a  parting  kiss,  Mrs.  Drewitt  de- 
parted, to  put  on  her  bonnet  and  mantle,  and  accompany  her  husband. 

They  both  popped  in  their  heads  to  bid  the  girl  good-night,  in  case  she 
should  grow  weary  before  they  returned. 

Then  Ulrica  heard  the  front  door  close,  and  she  was  alone. 

She  lay  back  in  her  cozy  chair  and  gazed  into  the  fire,  thinking  over 
Guy's  message  and  all  the  love  he  bestowed  on  her. 

What  must  she  do?     That  was  the  one  burning  thought  in  her  brain. 

She  recognized  to  the  full  the  pain  Guy  would  suffer  at  her  refusal  to  see 
him  ;  yet  much  as  she  longed  to  do  that,  great  as  would  be  the  pleasure  of 
his  presence  —  the  presence  of  a  staunch,  true  friend,  still  her  heart  failed 
her. 

But  about  nine  o'clock  a  circumstance  came  that  aroused  Ulrica  of  her- 
self. 

The  front  door  bell  rang  sharply  and  decisively,  and  at  the  sound  the  girl 
awoke,  her  heart  beating  wildly,  and  her  pulses  thrilling  in  a  vague  way 
that  unconsciously  distressed  her,  though  why  she  knew  not. 

She  heard  Barlow  go  to  the  door,  though,  as  a  rule,  a  younger  maid 
admitted  strangers. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  a  voice,  and  then  she  heard  Barlow  come  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  turn  the  handle. 

"  If  you  please,  miss,  there's  a  person  wishes  to  see  you  ;  he  has  brought 
a  message  from  the  master,  he  says  —  a  note  or  something. " 

There  was  just  the  faintest  tone  of  vexation  in  Barlow's  voice ;  she  was 
so  used  to  knowing  all  her  master's  and  mistress'  doings,  this  sending  a 
note  to  Ulrica  unconsciously  pained  her. 

Ulrica  was  quick  to  see  it. 

"  There  must  be  some  mistake,  Barlow,"  she  said  gently.  "  I  expect  the 
note  is  to  you. " 

Barlow  was  pacified  at  once ;  and  then  a  thought  came  into  her  mind 
that  perhaps  this  was,  after  all,  private  business  of  Ulrica's  own. 

"  I'll  go  and  see  again,  miss,"  she  said. 

Ulrica  bent  and  stroked  the  cat ;  the  beating  in  her  heart  had  died 
away. 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  125 

What  more  natural  than  that  one  of  her  kind  benefactors  should  require 
something  ? 

Barlow  entered  with  a  note  bearing  every  evidence  of  hasty  dispatch  in 
its  small,  rather  crushed  envelope. 

Ulrica  took  it,  and  then  she  knew  her  vague  surmises  had  been  but  too 
terribly  well-founded. 

She  turned  her  face  from  the  old  servant,  and  opened  the  note  with 
cold,  trembling  fingers. 

"  I  have  found  you  ;  see  me  without  delay.  I  am  in  no  mood  to  be 
trifled  with,  or  be  refused.  If  you  do  intend  to  take  this  line,  I  warn  you 
that  I  will  expose  this  clergyman  who  is  giving  you  shelter,  and  separating 
you  from  your  lawful  husband.  Believe  me,  Ulrica,  I  never  utter  a  threat 
I  do  not  intend  to  keep.  I  am  waiting  your  answer. 

"HORACE  MOTT." 

Ulrica  shivered  against  herself,  all  her  courage  fled 

"  I  never  utter  a  threat  I  do  not  intend  to  keep. " 

What  could  that  mean  but  that  her  lover  might  still  be  in  danger,  and 
she  would  bring  shame  and  disgrace  on  these  good  people  who  had  rescued 
her? 

She  still  kept  her  face  turned  away  from  Barlow. 

"Send  —  send  the  person  in,"  she  managed  to  say,  though  her  voice 
shook.  "  He — I  know  him,  Barlow  ;  he  wishes  to  see  me." 

"  Then  the  master  does  not  want  anything  himself?  "  asked  Barlow,  sat- 
isfied that  her  idea  was  right. 

"  No,"  murmured  Ulrica. 

Barlow  withdrew,  and  Ulrica  stood  as  still  as  a  statue. 

A  slight  noise  at  the  door  made  her  turn,  and  there,  disguised  in  a  long, 
shabby  overcoat,  with  the  smile  she  had  grown  to  hate  and  fear  on  his 
lips,  was  her  husband. 

He  moved  slowly  toward  the  fire  with  a  limping,  halting  gait,  and  then 
gazed  at  her,  still  smiling. 

"Only  one  thing  wanted — a  husband  to  finish  the  picture.  For- 
tunately I  can  supply  that  commodity. " 

Ulrica  unconsciously  shrank  from  him. 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  afraid  my  coat  is  shabby,'1  he  observed,  remarking  ner  ac- 
tion, and  pretending  to  misunderstand  it  ;  "  but  you  see  I  am  compelled  to 
adopt  a  disguise  to  obtain  an  audience  with  my  own  wife.  Strange,  is  it 
not  ?  but  quite  true. " 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me  ?  "  broke  from  Ulrica's  pale  tips. 

He  laughed  again. 

"  Well,  I  want  so  many  things.  First  and  foremost,  some  one  to  be  a 
companion  and  a  nurse  to  me.  You  see  the  result  of  your  doings.  I  am 
little  more  than  an  invalid  at  present,  I  regret  to  say." 

Ulrica  took  a  quick  breath  ;  she  would  make  a  strong  effort  before  she 
condemned  herself  forever. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you.  I  have  no  desire  to  see  you.  If  you 
are  ill  through  my  doings  I  am  sorry,  but  I  cannot  pretend  to  feel  the 
smallest  interest  in  your  welfare.  Your  sufferings  can  never  approach 
those  you  have  caused  me.  There  is  no  law  to  compel  me  to  live  with  you, 
and " 

"  Your  legal  knowledge  is  undoubted,  of  course,**  he  interrupted,  quietly. 

"  A  marriage  forced  upon  me  by  unmanly  threats  is  no  marriage  in  my 
eyes,"  Ulrica  continued  hurriedly. 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  127 

"  Your  eyes  are  not  the  optics  of  the  law." 

She  took  no  noticte.  of  the  remark  given  with  an  air  of  maddening  indif- 
ference. 

"  I  refuse  to  recognize  it.  You  have  behaved  throughout  as  only  a 
coward  and  villain  would  have  done.  You  lied  to  me  about  my  father. 
You " 

>(  Now,  how  did  you  discover  that  ?k"  demanded  Mott,  in  a  quiet,  sur- 
prised way. 

"Then  —  then  it  was  not  true?  He  did  not  murder  my "  The 

words  died  away. 

"  I  believe  your  late  father  had  many  crimes  on  his  soul,"  Mott  observed 
slowly  ;  "  but  that  he  was  guilty  of  murder  I  think  is  a  cruel  calumny. " 

"  And  yet  you " 

Ulrica  got  no  further  ;  she  sank  into  the  chair  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands,  stunned  by  this  truth —  this  awful  truth  thatjiad  destroyed  her 
life  ;  but  for  this  man's  lies  she  would  even  now  be  basking  in  the  sun- 
shine of  love  and  happiness !  The  blow  was  too  heavy. 

"Come,"  said  her  husband  in  a  drawling  way,  "don't  be  so  weak. 
When  I  informed  you  of  your  father's  supposed  sin,  you  bore  it  like  a 
lion,  and  now " 

The  girl  made  no  movement. 

He  watched  her  silently  while  the  clock  ticked  almost  five  minutes,  and 
the  cat  rose  and  walked  slowly  to  the  door. 

Then  he  changed. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  sharply,  "  get  your  things  on;  I  am  tired,  and  want  to 
get  home." 

"  I  am  not  going  with  you,"  Ulrica  answered,  raising  her  head. 

"  No?     Well,  that  is  curious;  but  I  think  you  will." 

She  met  his  dark  eyes,  and,  against  herself,  shuddered. 

"  You,  perhaps,  did  not  read  my  note  carefully?"  he  went  on.  "  Then 
I  must  explain  it.  You  remember  the  threat  I  used  so  successfully  before 
you  honored  me  by  becoming  my  wife?  Ah,  I  thought  so.  Well,  allow 
me  to  point  out  that,  unless  you  are  my  wife  in  deed,  and  as  such  obey  the 
vows  you  spoke,  that  threat  still  holds  good.  I  am  desperate,  Ulrica;  don't 
tempt  me,  for  by  heaven,  I  swear,  if  you  do,  John  Dunworthy's  life  is  not 
worth  a  button!" 

She  clutched  the  chair  for  support.  The  words  were  not  'spoken  hotly 
or  passionately,  but  in  a  cold,  set,  savage  way,  that  struck  a  chill  in  her 
veins. 

"  More  than  that,"  continued  Horace  Mott,  quietly,  "this  man  and  his 
wife  are  outraging  the  law  when  they  give  you  shelter  and  take  you  from 
the  lawful  protection  of  your  husband.  Hesitate, bnly  one  instant,  and  I 
will  disgrace  them.  A  clergyman's  position  is  a  delicate  one.  I  have  but 
to  breathe  this  scandal  in  his  parish,  and  you  will  have  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  your  benefactors  covered  with  shame  before  all  the  world." 

Ulrica  was  silent,  motionless,  as  he  ceased;  every  syllable,  every  word, 
struck  home. 

She  felt,  she  knew  this  was  true — that  if  she  refused  to  go  with  this 
man  she  must  drag  the  vicar  and  his  wife  into  a  very  quagmire  of  scandal 
and  disgrace.  It  was  enough;  she  could  not  repay  their  goodness  to  her 
thus,  even  though  in  preventing  it  she  sacrificed  herself. 

"  You  have  won,"  she  said,  cold  as  ice.  "  Once  before  I  remarked  that 
warfare  with  you  was  impossible.  You  have  me  in  your  jpower,  but  though 


128  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

you  can  command  me  as  your  slave,  you  cannot  cnange  my  neart;  in  that 
lives  a  flame  of  love  for  John  Dunworthy  which  no  act  or  word  of  yours 
could  dim  for  a  moment,  and  side  by  side  with  it  a  flood  of  bitter  hatred, 
disgust,  and  contempt  for  yourself  which  will  remain  till  I  am  dead." 

Mott  leaned  carelessly  against  the  mantel-piece. 

"  He  laughs  loudest  who  laughs  last,"  he  remarked  with  a  sneer.  "  You 
are  mine,  and  if  you  imagine  such  a  flood  of  hysterical,  ultra-sentimental 
rubbish  as  that  will  have  any  effect  upon  me  —  well,  you  are  mistaken,  that 
is  all." 

Ulrica  moved  to  the  writing-table. 

Disgust  for  this  man  gave  her  a  new  air  of  imperious  dignity. 

"  There  is  veiy  little  that  would  have  effect  upon  such  a  nature  as  yours 
except  a  horsewhip,"  she  said,  contemptuously. 

Mott  flushed  crimson,  unconsciously  he  took  a  step  nearer. 

"  Take  care,  Ulrica ! "  he  said,  huskily. 

She  laughed  a  sharp,  mirthless  laugh. 

"  I  am  not  afraid.  I  shall  be  prepared  for  blows  ;  slaves  must  expect 
them — well,  let  them  come,  they  may  hasten  the  end;  if  so,  they  will  be 
welcome. " 

Horace  Mott  gazed  at  her. 

He  did  not  know  her  in  this  wild,  reckless  mood. 

Ulrica  passed  one  hand  over  her  burning  eyes,  then  seated  herself  at  the 
writing-table,  and  took  up  the  pen. 

She  had  a  task  to  perform. 

The  vicar  and  his  wife  must  know  where  she  had  gone,  but  not  why; 
she  would  not  let  them  defy  this  man,  and  so  bring  disgrace  upon  them. 

"DEAR  GOOD  FRIENDS,"  she  wrote  —  "  My  husband  has  found  me;  he  requests  me 
to  leave  your  house  at  once,  and  as  I  have  no  alternative  but  to  comply,  I  am  going 
accordingly.  May  God  in  heaven  bless  you  for  all  your  goodness  to  me !  I  shall  never 
forget  you,  and,  through  all,  always  remember  that  a  flood  of  gratitude  and  love  lives 
in  the  heart  of 

"ULRICA  MOTT." 

She  wrote  the  words  steadily  and  boldly;  there  was  no  hesitation  abou. 
it,  even  when  she  inscribed  the  hateful  letters  of  her  new  name. 

She  was  changed  from  a  weak  trembling  girl  to  a  woman,  strong,  as  it 
were,  with  an  iron  nerve  and  resolution. 

"  Wait  here, "  she  said,  putting  the  note  on  the  table.  "  I  will  fetch  my 
cloak  and  hat." 

She  went  mechanically  up-stairs. 

Barlow  was  dozing  in  her  little  sitting-room  and  did  not  hear  her.  The 
other  servants  had  gone  to  the  concert. 

She  wrapped  her  cloak  round  her,  fastened  her  shoes,  and  putting  on 
her  hat,  went  slowly  from  the  room. 

She  did  not  look  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  but  descended  the  stairs  in 
the  same  set  fashion,  and  then  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room. 

For  one  instant  the  contrast  between  its  warm  cozy  light  and  the  gloom 
and  cold  outside  that  but  foreshadowed  her  future  life,  brought  a  shudder 
through  her,  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 

"  I  am  ready,"  she  said  to  Horace  Mott. 

With  a  sharp  glance  at  her,  he  buttoned  his  coat  tightly  round  him,  and 
went  to  the  entrance. 

A  fine  rain  was  falling,  and  Ulrica  shivered  again,  but  her  carriage  was 
steady,  her  face  pale  and  set,  as  she  followed  her  husband  down  to  the 
stepts  into  the  night. 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  129 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

JTTHE  loud  peal  of  the  bell  rang  through  the  house.  Guy  waited  impa- 
•1  tiently  on  the  doorstep  while  the  echoes  died  faintly  away.  As  the 
latch  clicked  back,  he  spoke  hastily  : 

"  Mr    Horace  Mott  has  rooms  here?  " 

The  servant  looked  surprised  at  bis  impatience. 

"  He  had,  sir,"  he  answered,  "  up  to  'an  hour  ago.  He  has  lived  here, 
on  and  off,  for  several  years,  but  this  evening  he  paid  up  his  rent,  and  told 
my  wife  she  could  rent  his  rooms  whenever  she  liked.  He's  gone  abroad, 
I  think,  sir." 

Guy  was  silent,  crushed  by  this  last  blow. 

"  Was  he  alone  ?  "  he  asked  after  a  moment's  pause,  speaking  in  a  harsh, 
constrained  voice. 

"  No,  sir ;  he  took  his  wife  with  him.  We  didn't  even  know  as  how  he 
was  married  till  he  was  carried  home  here  after  his  accident,  and  they  said 
as  how  they'd  found  the  marriage  certificate  in  his  pocket.  He  told  us  he 
were  going  away  for  a  while. " 

"  Did  you  see  Mrs.  Mott  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  very  young  and  beautiful  she  were,  but  she  looked  awful  ill 
like." 

"  Did  Mr.  Mott  leave  his  address  ?  " 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  Any  letters  what  comes  we're  to  forward  to  his  bankers." 

"  I  suppose  Ul — Mrs.  Mott  left  no  message  ?  " 

"  None,  sir.  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Mott  opened  her  lips  once,  sir — in  fact, 
I'm  sure  she  didn't." 

"  But  there  is  no  train  to  Dover  at  this  time  of  night. " 

"  Well,  sir,  I  don't  know  nothing  about  that.  They  druv  away  from  here, 
sir,  at  eleven  o'clock  precisely,  sir.  I  don't  know  which  way  they  went." 

Guy  buttoned  his  coat  round  his  neck.  He  slipped  a  sovereign  into  the 
man's  hand. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  I  am  afraid  I  have  given  you  a  lot  of 
trouble." 

"  No  trouble,  sir,  at  all.  Only  sorry  you  arrived  so  late.  If  I  see  or  hear 
anything  of  Mr.  Mott  or  the  lady,  sir,  shall  I  let  you  know?  " 

Guy  pondered,  and  then  agreed. 

"  That  is  my  card.     A  telegram  there  will  always  find  me. " 

The  door  was  closed,  and  the  servant  pocketed  the  sovereign,  then 
mounted  to  his  attic,  having  looked  once  again  that  all  the  various  articles 
deposited  on  the  hall-table  were  ready  for  the  occupants  of  the  numerous 
flats  or  chambers. 

"  Strange  go  altogether,"  he  mused,  rubbing  his  chin.  "  Well,  it  ain't 
my  business,  though  I  ain't  done  badly  by  it  so  far." 

Guy  drove  back  through  the  streets,  empty  save  for  the  carriages  and 
cabs  bearing  many  a  dainty  lady  and  cavalier  from  theatre  to  ball  or  home, 
the  occasional  passenger  hurrying  through  the  cold  night  air,  and  the  stal- 
wart policemen  standing  like  sentries  at  the  street -corners. 

"  And  this  is  the  end ! "  he  mused  with  sad  bitterness.  "  It  was  for  this 
I  sacrificed  myself,  tore  up  my  love  at  the  roots,  endured  the  misery  I  have 


130  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

endured,  only  to  see  my  darling  lost,  wretched — her  happiness  gone  for- 
ever !  Well,  I  am  punished  for  my  presumption.  I  set  myself  up  to  mark 
out  her  life,  to  give  her  nothing  but  peace  and  gladness,  and  my  work  has 
been  destroyed.  Oh,  Ulrica — Ulrica!  my  one  love,  my  pure  white  flower, 
would  that  I  had  died  before  this  came  to  you  and  wrecked  your  youug 
life! 

But  now  there  remained  nothing  but  to  tell  the  truth  —  an  undertaking 
from  which  Guy  shrank  with  a  heart  full  of  pain. 

He  entered  Sir  John's  room  early. 

"  What  news,  Strong  ?  "  was  the  eager  question  put  so  regularly.  "  Is 
there  any  ?  "  • 

Guy  hesitated  a  moment,  then  said  very  gently  and  slowly : 

"Yes,  Jack,  there  is  news.     It  is  not  good." 

"  Not  good!  "  repeated  the  young  man,  raising  himself  with  his  elbow  on 
his  pillow,  and  speaking  in  a  low,  husky  voice.  "  Go  on,  old  fellow.  I 
am  no  coward  ;  I  can  bear  the  worst.  Ulrica  is  —  is  dead ! " 

"  Dead  to  you,"  was  the  answer.  "  Jack,  she  is  parted  from  you  forever; 
she  is  Horace  Mott's  wife!" 

"What!" 

The  one  word  was  uttered  shrilly. 

Sir  John's  face  grew  crimson  ;  his  right  hand  was  clenched. 

He  seemed  paralyzed  for  an  instant ;  then  the  color  faded  slowly  but 
surely  from  his  worn  cheeks  ;  his  fingers  relaxed,  and,  with  a  gasp,  he  sank 
back  onto  his  pillows. 

Guy  bent  over  him  with  the  tenderness  of  a  woman. 

"  It  is  too  much  for  him,"  he  murmured  to  himself. 

But  John  Dunworthy's  ears  were  closed.  Weakened  by  anxiety  and 
illness,  Guy's  words  struck  his  heart  as  with  a  blow,  and,  as  theJiorrible 
meaning  came  to  him,  he  sank  back,  lost  mercifully  for  the  moment  in  a 
dead  faint. 

*  •::•  *  «.  *  *  *  *  *          .        * 

Connie  Wren  had  not  a  pleasant  time  with  Lady  Dunworthy. 

She  had  promisee!  Sir  John  that  his  mother  should  not  be  witn  him 
alone,  and  that  the  subject  of  Ulrica  should  not  be  mentioned  in  his  pres- 
ence, and  for  the  sake  of  her  own  plans  she  had  to  work  this,  but  it 
was  a  very  difficult  task. 

Lady  Dunworthy  posed  as  an  injured  mother.  She  was  disagreeable  to 
a  degree.  She  refused  to  see  Guy  at  all,  accusing  him,  in  her  narrow- 
minded  way,  of  all  that  had  occurred,  and  she  worried  Connie  almost  past 
endurance  by  her  tactless  remarks  whenever  she  appeared  at  her  son's 
bedside. 

The  night  of  the  afternoon  that  had  brought  Dr.  Drewitt  to  the  Lang- 
ham  was  passed  by  Connie  in  a  nervous,  excited  way.  She  had  dispatched 
the  telegram  to  Mott  herself,  and  then  had  to  sit  down  quietly  and  wait 
the  result. 

She  could  scarcely  sleep  for  her  agitation,  and  as  morning  broke  over 
the  city,  she  rose  and  dressed  rapidly,  determined  to  go  to  Guy  and,  if  pos- 
sible, learn  what  had  happened. 

She  found  her  entrance  to  Sir  John's  room  barred  by  Gryce. 

"  Dr.  Strong  said  Sir  John  is  not  to  be  disturbed.  He  has  had  a  bad 
night. " 

Connie  bit  her  lips. 

M  Where  is  Dr.  Strong  ?  "  she  asked. 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  13! 

"  In  the  coffee-room  having  some  breakfast,  I  fancy." 

Connie  swept  away. 

As  she  entered  the  coffee-room  she  found  Guy,  and  seated  beside  him  her 
sister  Chattie  and  Basil  Morne. 

She  greeted  Chattie  with  little  warmth,  for  in  her  heart  she  was  annoyed 
to  see  her. 

"  What  brings  you  here  ?  "  she  asked  taking  another  chair,  after  shaking 
hands  with  Basil. 

"  You,"  said  Chattie  laconically. 

Guy  noted  Connie's  frown.  9 

"  Your  mother  is  ill,  Connie,  and  wants  you,"  he  said. 

Connie  almost  stamped  her  foot. 

"  Mamma  has  always  got  something  the  matter  with  her,"  she  declared. 
"  What  good  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  We  have  heard  so  much  of  your  nursing  propensities,  my  dear,"  Chattie 
observed  quietly,  though  there  was  a  sparkle  of  anger  and  contempt  in  her 
green-gray  eyes,  "  that  we  are  anxious  to  put  them  to  the  test.  You  could 
not  devote  yourself  to  a  better  case  than  your  own  mother." 

Chattie  attacked  a  piece  of  bacon  violently,  and  Connie  felt  she  could 
have  willingly  struck  her  sister. 

"  I  can't  come  till  the  afternoon,"  she  said  sharply.  "  I  presume  you  have 
sent  for  mamma's  doctor  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  Chattie's  laconic  reply. 

"  And  she  has  Margaret  and  you  to  nurse  her, "  went  on  Connie.  "  What 
more  does  she  want  ?  " 

"  She  has  the  bad  taste  to  be  fond  of  you,  and  now,  when  she  is  ill,  looks 
for  some  small  return  for  all  the  sacrifices  she  has  made  for  you." 

Chattie  spoke  almost  passionately  ;  tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

Basil's  color  rose,  and  he  began  to  whistle,  and  Guy,  who  had  sunk  into 
a  partial  reverie,  looked  up  now. 

"  Chattie,  dear,"  he  said  gently. 

"  Well,  Uncle  Guy " 

Chattie  got  no  further ;  she  bit  her  lip,  and  went  on  cutting  her  bacon 
fiercely. 

Connie  smiled  sneeringly. 

"  Pray,  who  brought  you  here  so  early  this  morning,  may  I  ask,  Chattie  ?  " 

Basil  stopped  short  in  his  whistle. 

"  You  may.     I  did,"  was  the  remark. 

"  Well,  I  think,  on  the  whole,  it  is  a  good  thing  I  am  coming  home;  it 
is  very  evident  mamma's  illness  is  a  very  excellent  excuse  for  Chattie  to  in- 
dulge her  every  whim. " 

"  You  are  quite  wrong,"  Basil  answered,  meeting  her  gaze  with  his  .hand- 
some eyes.  "  Your  mother  not  only  knows  Chattie  is  with  me,  but  sanc- 
tions it;  Mrs.  Wren  cannot  be  left  alone,  or  Margaret  would  have  accom- 
panied your  sister) " 

"  Who  is  much  obliged  for  your  kind  consideration,"  broke  in  Chattie ; 
then,  turning  to  Guy,  she  continued  hurriedly  and  eagerly:  "  Please  go  on, 
Uncle  Guy;  you  did  not  answer  my  question.  What  about  Ulrica?" 

Guy  gave  a  quick  sigh. 

"  Ulrica  has  been  found,  but,"  he  added  quickly,  as  Chattie  began  softly 
to  clasp  her  hands —  "  but  she  is  lost  to  us  again." 

K  What  do  you  mean?  "  cried  Chattie  and  Basil  in  one  breath. 

Connie  made  no  sign,  but  her  heart  was  beating  to  suffocation.  ^ 


132  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

In  a  few  broad  words,  spoken  in  tones  of  concentrated  emotion,  Guy 
told  all  he  knew  of  Ulrica. 

"  Married !  Married  to  Horace  Mott !  "  replied  Chattie.  "  Oh,  Uncle 
Guy,  there  must  be  some  mistake !  " 

Basil  sat  astounded. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

OUMMER  once  again — warm,  bright,  golden  summer-time.  The  trees 
O  rustled  their  new  garments  of  fresh  green  leaves.  The  air  murmured 
lazily  beneath  their  branches;  the  sky  beamed  blue  through  its  filmy  laces 
of  white  clouds;  and  earth  rejoiced  that  winter's  black  ban  and  spring's 
uncertain  touch  were  banished  in  the  summer  sun. 

The  Park  was  filled  with  a  throng  of  fashionable  riders,  carriages  and 
pedestrians, '  whose  dainty-hued  garments  seemed  like  so  many  butterflies 
flitting  against  the  green  back-ground. 

Three  or  four  equestrians  were  grouped  beneath  a  clump  of  trees  about 
the  center  of  the  Row,  talking  to  several  damsels  and  their  cavaliers,  who 
were  among  the  strollers  to  and  tro. 

One  of  the  two  girls  on  horseback  was  reining  in  her  steed  with  difficulty, 
while  she  talked  to  a  tall,  good-looking  man. 

She  had  a  svelte  graceful  young  figure,  with  a  piquant  pretty  face  smiling 
under  her  orthodox  riding-hat,  which  could  not  hide  the  radiance  of  deep 
red  hair  coiled  neatly  in  the  nape  of  the  neck. 

"  You  were  very  unkind  last  night,  Miss  Chattie,"  the  man  was  saying. 

Chattie  laughed,  and  then  one  saw  how  little  she  was  really  changed, 
though  she  was  nearly  six  months  older,  and  had  spent  all  that  time  in  the 
world,  for  she  had  come  out  and  was  now  a  young  lady  of  fashion. 

"  Was  I,  Lord  Eric?     I  assure  you  I  did  not  mean  it.    What  did  I  do?  " 

"  You  refused  to  listen  to  me,  after  I  had  waited  all  the  evening,  too,  for 
that  opportunity." 

"  Had  you  anything  important  to  say?  "  inquired  the  girl,  bending  to 
stroke  the  neck  of  her  horse,  speaking  rather  constrainedly. 

Lord  Eric  Moseley  glanced  round  at  the  group  near  at  hand,  but  they 
were  deep  in  a  conversation  and  could  not  hear. 

"  I  think  you  know  what  I  wanted  to  say,  Chattie — don't  you?  " 

Chat  tie's  face  flushed. 

"  I  guess  now,"  she  answered,  quickly;  "but,  dear  Lord  Eric,  you  must 
not  say  it.  I  thought  you  knew  I  am  engaged  to  Basil  Morne." 

The  young  man  said  nothing  at  first.  He  looked  down  on  the  ground 
and  buried  his  stick  in  the  soft  turf;  then,  after  a  moment's  silence,  he 
lifted  his  head,  and  said  quietly: 

"  Yes;  I  remember  you  told  me;  but  when  I  spoke  to  your  sister  she 
laughed  at  it  as  so  much  nonsense." 

"  Connie  had  no  right  to  do  that,"  Chattie  said,  warmly,  feeling  pained 
and  annoyed.  "  Believe  me,  Lord  Eric,  I  would  have  spared  you  this. " 

Lord  Eric  gazed  into  her  green-gray  eyes,  so  earnest,  and  to  him  so 
bewitching. 

"  I  believe  you  from  my  heart ! " 

Then  they  were  silent  again  once  more,  and  Chattie  let  her  gaze  wander 
in  her  troubled  thought  over  the  sea  of  passing  faces  till  it  rested  on  a 
woman  standing  quite  close  —  a  shabby,  middle-aged  woman,  with  an  old 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  133 

shawl  drawn  round  her  shoulders,  and  her  eyes  fixed  with  a  strange,  eager 
search  on  every  horseman  that  passed. 

Chat  tie  was  beginning  to  wonder  in  her  mind  what  such  a  poor,  sad- 
looking  creature  wanted  in  a  crowd  so  gay  as  this,  when  Lord  Eric  broke 
the  silence : 

"  I  am  thinking  of  going  off  on  my  travels  once  more,  Miss  Chattie. " 
"  When  will  you  go?    Not  until  after  Goodwood,  of  course?  " 
He  smiled  a  little. 

"  To  tell  you  the  honest  truth,  the  London  season  bores  me  to  such  an 
extent,  I  am  always  glad  to  curtail  it.  I  should  not  have  remained  so  long 
already  but  for  certain  circumstances. " 

Chattie  flushed  a  little  with  pained  annoyance;   again  she  understood 
what  it  meant,  and  could  not  help  feeling  bitter  with  Connie  for  putting 
her  in  so  false  a  position. 
Lord  Eric  went  on  quickly: 

"  I  never  told  you,  did  I,  Miss  Chattie,  that  I  knew  all  about  you  before 
I  ever  saw  you?  I  met  some  one  abroad  who  sang  your  praises  so  warmly 
they  won  my  heart. " 

"  That  must  have  been  Jack — Sir  John  Dunworthy,  I  suppose?  "  Chattie 
said,  looking  puzzled. 

"  Indeed  no.     It  was  a  lady  —  a  beautiful  young  lady  whom  I  happened 
to  meet  in  the  mogt  casual  way  when  last  in  Paris. " 
"  A  lady ! "  repeated  Chattie,  still  puzzled. 
Lord  Eric  laughed. 
"  I  see  you  will  never  guess — so  I  must  tell  you  it  was  a  Mrs.  Horace 

Mott.     Do  you " 

But  two  interruptions  came  at  this  instant,  one  from  Chattie,  who 
started,  and  then  murmured:  "Ulrica!  you  have  seen  her?"  and  one 
from  the  shabby  woman,  who  was  turning  and  gazing  at  them  fixedly,  her 
worn  face  grown  a  shade  paler. 

Lord   Eric  did  not   notice  her,  and  Chattie's  excitement  at  hearing 

Ulrica's  name  mentioned  at  last,  drove  everything  around  her  from  her  mind. 

"  Ulrica ! "  she  said  again.    "  Lord  Eric,  she  was  my  dearest  friend.    Oh, 

tell  me  where  she  is — what  she  is  doing.     Is  she  looking  well?    Oh,  how 

beautiful  she  was  —  my  poor  Ulrica ! " 

Lord  Eric  looked  at  the  flushed  young  face  with  sympathetic  surprise. 
"  She  is  indeed  lovely,"  he  agreed  ;  "  but  what  a  sad  face!    She  seldom 
smiles,  and  I  am  told  rarely  speaks  to  strangers,  so  that  I  may  consider 
myself  honored  in  so  much  as  she  seemed  to  like  chatting  with  me. " 
"  And  did  she  speak  often  of  me  ?  "  asked  Chattie  eagerly. 
"  No ;  your  name  was  not  mentioned  till  the  very  last  day  we  met ;  then 
I  spoke  of  coming  to  town,   and  somehow,  among  other  things,  your 
sister's  name  was  mentioned,  and  then  it  was  that  her  cold  indifference 
vanished,  and  she  spoke  of  you  as  the  angel  you  are." 
Chattie  took  no  notice  of  the  last  compliment. 

"  Lord  Eric,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "  tell  me  more — what  is  she  doing, 
and  where  is  he  —  that  horrible  man  ?  " 

"  They  were  in  Paris,  as  I  told  you.  Mott  had  some  heavy  speculations 
on  hand,  I  believe  ;  anyhow  his  rooms  were  thronged  with  stockbrokers, 
rich,  vulgar  moneyed  men,  among  whom  his  wife  looked  like  a  flower  of  a 
different  world.  She  told  me  they  never  rested  long  in  one  place,  and 
might  leave  that  very  night  for  London,  which  as  a  matter  of  fact  they 


134  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

The  woman  by  the  rails  had  drawn  nearer  and  nearer,  till  she  almost 
touched  Lord  Eric's  sleeve,  but  still  Chattie  and  he  were  so  deep  in  their 
subject  that  she  was  unnoticed.  - 

"  London  !  "  repeated  Chattie  anxiously  ;  "  then  if  she  is  here  I  must  see 
her.  Lord  Eric,  you  have  done  many  kind,  little  actions  for  me  ;  will  you 
do  me  another  ?  Find  out  where  Ulrica  —  Mrs.  Mott  is  now,  and  let  me 
know. " 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  do  so  very  easily,"  said  the  young  man  warmly,  "  for 
Mott  is  a  man  who  will  soon  make  his  whereabouts  known.  You  do  not 
like  him,  Miss  Chattie  ?  " 

"  Like  him ! "  cried  the  girl ;  "  he  is  a  villain  and  contemptible  cur ! " 
Then  she  added  more  gently :  "  Some  day,  perhaps,  I  will  tell  you  why  I 
say  this  ;  and  you  will  agree  with  me,  I  know. " 

"  If  he  has  injured  his  wife,  indeed  I  shall,  for  I  fell  a  desperate  victim 
to  her.  She  interested  me  strangely  —  it  was  so  beautiful,  so  young  a 
face,  and  yet  all  hope,  all  joy  of  living,  seemed  dead  ;  she  made  one  sad  to 
look  at  her.  I  thought  it  disgust  for  her  husband's  surroundings  —  for, 
you  know,  Mott  is  famous  for  his  gambling  propensities ;  he  always  turns 
his  house  into  a  small  establishment  which,  if  discovered  by  law,  would  be 
liable  to  bring  him  into  great  trouble. " 

"  And  he  has  dragged  Ulrica  into  this ! "  murmured  Chattie, .  tightening 
her  rein  in  her  indignation.  "  Lord  Eric,  more  than  ever  I  must  see  her ! 
Oh,  how  I  wish  I  knew  where  she  was  at  this  moment. " 

Lord  Eric  was  glancing  into  the  crowd. 

"  I  think  I  may  be  able  to'gratify  that  wish,  Miss  Chattie,"  he  said  hur- 
riedly. "  Will  you  excuse  me  for  one  minute?  " 

He  darted  away,  and  Chattie  sat  on  in  a  fever  of  impatience,  while  the 
woman  at  the  rails  stood  with  one  thin  work-stained  hand  grasping  the  iron 
bar  as  if  for  support. 

Connie,  seeing  her  sister's  cavalier  depart,  turned  round. 

"  Come,  Chattie,"  she  remarked  in  her  most  approved  drawling  fashion, 
"  if  you  are  ready  to  go.  I  am  sure  Uncle  Mark  must  be  tired  of  waiting." 

"  Uncle  Mark  "  was  their  mother's  brother,  who  always  accompanied 
them  in  their  daily  rides. 

"  I  am  not  ready, "  Chattie  answered  curtly. 

Connie  settled  herself  more  comfortably  in  her  saddle. 

"  State  secrets  with  Lord  Eric, "  she  laughed,  though  in  her  heart  she 
was  jealous  of  her  sister's  undoubted  social  success. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news,  Miss  Wren?  "  broke  in  a  young  soldier  from 
the  path,  eager  to  be  seen  talking  to  the  two  pretty  "  Wrens." 

"  Something  startling?  "  inquired  Connie  languidly. 

"  Only  that  Dunworthy  is  back  in  England.  Saw  him  myself  half  an 
hour  ago. " 

Connie's  fair  cheeks  flushed. 

This  was  news  indeed  —  news  she  had  grown  tired  of  waiting  for  ;  but 
no  sign  of  her  pleasure  was  visible  in  her  voice  as  she  said : 

"  And  where  is  this  most  remiss  wanderer?  " 

"  I  believe  he  is  in  town  now,  but  he  told  me  he  should  not  stay  long  j  he 
meant  to  go  direct  to  Dunworthy  Castle." 

Connie's  heart  beat  fast. 

This  was  the  first  visit  to  his  home  since  the  affair  about  Ulrica.  It 
augured  well  that  he  was  cured,  she  told  herself. 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  135 

Chattie  heard  all,  but  made  no  sign.  She  was  thinkly  sadly  about  the 
girl  whom  she  had  loved  so  dearly. 

"  What  would  I  not  give  to  be  able  to  send  Jack  direct  to  her,  and  let  all 
her  sorrows  end ! "  she  mused. 

Lord  Eric  came  back  at  this  moment. 

"  Eureka!"  he  whispered.  "  Draycott  saw  Mott  last  night.  They  are 
staying  in  town ;  he  can' t  quite  remember  where,  but  he  thinks  somewhere  on 
Brompton-road.  He  is  going  to  find  out,  and  you  shall  know  immediately 
he  does  so. " 

Chattie  put  out  her  small  hand.     There  were  two  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  have  given  me  great  pleasure,  Lord  Eric,"  she  said.  "Au  revoir, 
and  thank  you." 

Lord  Eric  murmured  something ;  Connie  and  Chattie,  with  their  uncle 
and  his  son,  bowed  farewell  and  rode  slowly  away  to  luncheon,  leaving  the 
poor  woman  standing  by  the  rails,  as  if  some  magnetic  influence  held  her 
there. 

Her  face  was  white,  and  her  eyes  fixed  with  a  strange  look  straight  before 
her. 

"  At  last,"  she  breathed  through  her  pale  lips — "  at  last,  Horace  Mott, 
my  hour  has  come !  I  shall  be  avenged ! " 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

JTTHii,  day  had  been  intensely  hot,  and  as  night  came  on  the  sky  clouded 
1  as  though  it  would  end  in  a  fitful  storm  of  thunder  and  rain. 

In  a  room  well  lit  with  shaded  lamps,  filled  with  an  atmosphere  of  tobacco- 
smoke,  and  loud  with  the  babble  of  voices  that  rose  from  the  men  clustered 
round  the  card-tables,  sat  a  woman. 

She  was  close  to  the  long  open  window,  from  which  could  be  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  dingy  square,  with  dusty  trees  and  brown  grass  in  the  center. 
The  very  faint  breeze  that  moved  the  lace  curtains  caressed  the  soft  tendrils 
of  hair  that  grew  on  her  brows,  and  fluttered  the  lace  gathered  at  her 
neck. 

She  held  some  work  in  her  hand.  But  her  whole  attention  was  turned 
from  the  hot  noisy  room  to  the  still  sultry  night  outside.  She  gazed  at 
the  occasional  passengers  sauntering  along  in  easy  fashion,  with  a  yearning 
look  on  her  lovely  face  that  filled  one  with  sorrow  to  see. 

It  was  Horace  Mott's  wife  —  the  girl  he  had  so  shamelessly  deceived  and 
forced  into  marriage,  beautiful  as  of  yore,  but  how  changed !  There  was 
not  the  suspicion  of  a  smile  on  the  sweet  lips  or  in  the  star-like  eyes  ;  it 
was  the  face  of  a  woman  who  had  no  hope,  no  joy  in  life  —  nothing  but 
endurance. 

She  shuddered  as  the  conversation  rose  sometimes  to  a  shout,  often 
terminating  in  an  oath. 

The  man  who  should  have  offered  her  protection  from  such  insults  sat 
by,  with  his  sneering  smile  on  his  face,  indifferent  so  it  seemed  even  to  her 
very  existence,  except  as  being  of  exceeding  value  to  him. 

Few  of  the  men  approached  Ulrica  to  talk  with  her  ;  she  had  an  air  of 
such  cold  dignity  and  refinement  that  held  them  apart,  though  many  were 
the  whispers  as  to  who  and  what  Mott's  wife  had  been,  and  why  she  should 
have  married  such  a  man.  They  knew  only  too  well  that  scarcely  one  of 
themselves  was  fit  to  be  in  her  society. 


136  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

Mott,  from  his  Seat  at  the  card-table,  cast  a  sharp  glance  at  her  every 
now  and  then,  and  frowned  unpleasantly  when  he  did  so. 

"It's  too  bad!"  he  muttered  to  himself  more  than  once  ;  "  sitting  there 
like  a  statue !  By  Heaven,  I  shall  end  it !  She  must  wake  up  ;  luck  is 
going  to  the  deuce,  and  her  face,  if  she  chooses,  could  turn  the  scale.  Sho 
could  do  it  if  she  likes. " 

As  he  thought  this  the  door  opened,  and  Lord  Elric  appeared. 

Mott  greeted  him  effusively,  but  after  a  few  words  Lord  Elric  made  his 
way  to  Ulrica's  side,  and  drawing  up  a  chair  began  to  talk  eagerly  to  her. 

There  was  a  flush  on  the  girl's  lovely  face  and  a  light  in  her  eyes,  as  she 
saw  the  young  man,  that  made  her  husband  bite  his  lip  with  iealous  rage 
and  anger. 

His  life  with  Ulrica  so  far  had  not  been  a  success  for  him. 

Every  command  he  gave,  however  tyrannical,  she  performed ;  she  ful- 
filled her  duties  in  a  way  that  aggravated  him  beyond  everything. 

Nothing  he  did  could  rouse  Ulrica  ;  even  in  his  passion  she  sat  as  calm 
as  a  statue,  never  moving  —  letting  his  rage  exhaust  itself. 

Alone  with  him,  she  never  opened  her  lips  or  spoke  to  him,  except  on 
the  most  ordinary  trivialities  of  everyday  life. 

Bullying  had  no  effect,  and  it  roused  him  almost  to  the  verge  of  mad- 
ness to  see  this  girl  shrink  from  the  very  touch  of  his  sleeve  as  from  some 
hideous  reptile. 

He  had  won  the  game  with  John  Dunworthy;  he  had  wrested  Ulrica 
from  all  she  loved,  but  there  his  triumph  ended. 

With  Ulrica  he  never  felt  anything  but  a  liar,  a  coward,  and  an  utter 
villain. 

"  I  have  come  on  purpose  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Mott,"  exclaimed  Lord  Eric 
Moseley,  as  he  shook  Ulrica's  delicate  hand. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again, "  she  replied,  in  her  sweet,  simple 
way. 

"  I  got  your  address  from  Draycott,"  went  on  the  young  man,  "  andca  m 
here  directly.  I  have  a  message  for  you  from  some  one  you  like  very 
much,  Mrs.  Mott." 

"  From — some  one  I  like!"  whispered  Ulrica,  fading  pale  as  death. 

"  I  saw  Miss  Chattie  Wren  in  the  Park  to-day,  and  I  told  her  how  I  had 
met  you,  and  how  you  had  spoken  of  her,  and  she  entreats  you  to  let  her 
come  and  see  you. r 

Ulrica's  hands  were  locked  together  tightly. 

"See  me!"  she  repeated,  agitatedly.  "Oh,  no  —  no  ;  it  must  not  be! 
Dear  Chattie!" 

Lord  Eric  looked  at  her  face  with  sympathy  and  admiration. 

"  She  will  be  greatly  disappointed,"  he  said. 

Ulrica  gave  a  short,  choking  sigh. 

"  Lord  Eric,  you  must  give  Chattie  my  love — how  poor  that  sounds !  — 
my  heartfelt,  never-altered  love  ;  but  tell  her  she  must  not  come  to  me,  or 
try  to  find  me.  I  could  not  bear  to  meet  her  yet. " 

"  I  will  tell  her  so  to-morrow. " 

Ulrica  had  turned  her  face  to  the  window  again  ;  there  was  a  quiver  on 
her  lips,  and  something  glistening  in  her  eye,  and  her  voice  trembled  as 
she  asked: 

"  And  —  and  how  is  she  looking  now?  " 

"  Chattie  always  will  be  the  dearest,  sweetest  girl  in  the  whole  world  to 
me."  Lord  Eric  spoke  mournfully,  then  went  on  : 


HER  FATAL   SIN.  137 

"  But  it  is  of  no  use  ;  she  is  engaged  to  marry  Basil  Morne." 
"  Basil !  "  murmured  Ulrica. 

In  fancy  she  could  see  the  boy  and  girl  romping  and  laughing,  teasing 
one  another  in  the  gardens  at  Bathurst,  while  she  had  sat  contented  in  the 
sweet  unconscious  dream  that  was  gradually  stealing  over  her. 

"  They  are  very  young,"  she  said  after  a  while  ;  "  but  I  think  they  will  be 
nappy. " 

Then  seeing  the  pained  look  on  Lord  Eric's  face,  she  put  out  her  hand 
gently. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you.  You  love  her,  too.  I  am  sure  you  could  not 
help  it,  she  is  one  of  earth's  angels." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  must  not  be  selfish  ;  I  shall  grow  out  of  it  some  day,  I  sup- 
pose. "  The  young  man  spoke  valiantly,  but  he  ended  in  a  deep  sigh. 

Mott,  looking  at  them  keenly  from  the  card-table,  saw  their  grave  expres- 
sions, and  the  sweet  look  in  Ulrica's  eyes,  when  she  turned  to  speak  to 
Lord  Eric,  and  a  flame  of  hot  color  rushed  to  his  brow. 

"  Can  it  be  that  she  has  grown  to  —  Pshaw !  the  idea  is  folly !  What 
heart  she  ever  had  is  buried  with  that  other  —  confound  him !  And  yet  it 
might  be  so  ;  women  are  strange  creatures ! " 

He  let  them  sit  talking  pleasantly  for  a  while,  then  raised  his  voice  : 

"  Play  something,  Ulrica,  or  sing  —  it  does  not  matter  which  ;  only  do 
your  share  to  amuse  our  guests. " 

Lord  Eric's  right  hand  clenched  itself  unconsiously,  as  he  saw  Ulrica 
quiver  at  the  insolent  indifference  in  her  husband's  tone. 

"  May  I  take  you  to  the  piano?  "  he  asked  with  tender  courtesy. 

Ulrica  shook  her  head. 

"  If  our  guests  will  pardon  me,  I  will  not  sing  to-night,"  she  said  in  her 
clear,  sweet  voice;  "  the  heat  is  so  great,  I " 

A  perfect  chorus  of  assent  rose  at  once  from  one  and  all  of  the  men  as- 
sembled; only  Horace  Mott's  lips  drew  in,  in  a  fashion  unbecoming  and 
disagreeable. 

"  If  madame  is  not  willing,  here  is  some  one  who  is!"  he  exclaimed,  as 
the  door  opened  and  a  man  entered,  spelling  vulgarity  in  his  every  line. 

He  was  one  of  Ulrica's  daily  trials;  her  delicate  nature,  her  refined  soul, 
shrank  from  this  boon  companion  of  Mott's,  even  more  than  it  shrank 
from  her  husband  himself. 

"  What  am  I  wanted  to  do? "  asked  this  individual,  in  accents  that 
denoted  a  close  acquaintance  with  whisky. 

"  Sing,  Major,"  Mott  said  laconically. 

Major  Carter,  as  he  called  himself,  lurched  at  once  to  the  piano,  and 
without  more  ado,  broke  into  a  song  which  brought  loud  laughter  from 
Mott  and  some  of  the  others,  but  which  forced  Ulrica's  head  to  droop  with 
shame,  and  Lord  Eric  to  rise  to  his  feet  and  exclaim  in  a  loud  voice: 

"Stop!" 

Carter  turned  round  with  a  drunken  air  of  inquiry. 

Lord  Eric  looked  straight  at  his  host. 

"  Your  wife  is  present,"  he  said  distinctly. 

Mott  laughed. 

"Well,  what  of  it?  Ulrica  is  not  squeamish;  she  has  heard  this  sort 
of  thing  scores  of  times,  and  will  have  to  again,  my  lord. " 

Ulrica,  as  pale  as  death,  moved  slowly  to  the  doorway,  and  Lord  Eric 
hastened  to  open  the  door  to  let  her  pass.  Once  outside,  she  stood  with 
dilated  eyes  and  heaving  breast. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  139 

"  He  must  not  be  insulted  for  me, "  ran  the  mad  thought  in  her  mind. 

She  could  hear  distinctly  what  followed. 

"  I  am  exceedingly  obliged  to  you  for  your  careful  thought  of  my  wife, 
Lord  Eric, "  said  her  husband  in  a  voice  choked  with  passion,  "  but  I  be- 
lieve I  am  perfectly  capable  of  doing  that  myself. " 

"  You  have  proved  that,  have  you  not  ?  "  answered  Lord  Eric  hotly. 

"If  my  manners  do  not  please  you,  there  is  always  one  alternative. " 

"  You  mean  leave  your  house.  I  am  going,  but  before  I  go  I  wish  to 
express  before  you  all,  the  sincere  respect  and  sympathy  I  hold  for  Mrs. 
Mott." 

There  was  another  murmur  of  assent,  in  which  Ulrica  heard  her  hus- 
band grunt :  "  Hang  your  sympathy  ;"  and  then  Lord  Eric  was  standing 
beside  her. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  —  thank  you ! "  she  whispered  brokenly. 

"Don't  say  that,  please,"  urged  the  young  man.  "Mrs.  Mott,  do 
let  Miss  Chattie  come  and  see  you.  You  ought  not  to  stay  here ;  your 
friends  should " 

"  I  have  no  friends  —  I  can  expect  no  help.  Oh,  Lord  Eric,  give  her  all 
my  messages,  tell  her  I  think  of  her  in  my  prayers  every  night  ;  but  she 
must  not  come  —  she  must  not.  We  may  not  meet  again,  you  and  I  —  let 
me  thank  you  for  all  your  great  manly  kindness  to  me  ;  it  has  been  so 
pleasant  — so  pleasant." 

Lord  Eric  watched  her  turn  away  with  a  new  mist  before  his  eyes. 

The  silence  was  broken  at  last  by  her  husband's  voice  shouting  her  name 
loudly. 

She  rose  mechanically  and  went  to  the  stairs. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  coldly. 

"  Come  down  —  I  want  you. " 

Slowly  she  descended  the  stairs  and  entered  the  room,  reeking  with 
tobacco-smoke  and  hot  air.  Carter  was  stretched  full  length  on  a  sofa 
still  smoking.  The  rest  had  gone. 

"Come  in,  can't  you!"  exclaimed  Mott  savagely  as  he  saw  the  girl 
recoil ;  "  we've  had  enough  of  your  infernal  airs  for  to-night. " 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  me  ?  "  asked  Ulrica,  putting  one  hand  on  a 
chair  for  support. 

"  Only  this  —  that  I  have  grown  sick  of  your  temper,  and  don't  mean  to 
stand  any  more.  What  do  you  mean  by  pushing  that  young  upstart  on  to 
insult  me  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind,"  was  Ulrica's  cold,  steady  reply. 
"  His  own  courtesy  prompted  him  to  the  act.  I  have  long  ceased  expecting 
any  respect  from  you. " 

"  You  will  get  more  than  ever  you  expected  from  me  shortly, "  snarled 
Mott,  between  his  teeth.  "  By  heaven,  I  mean  to  bring  you  off  your 
pedestal !  You  shall  learn  I  am  your  master,  if  not  by  kindness,  by  force 
instead. " 

"  You  know  how  much  effect  such  a  threat  is  likely  to  have  on  me.  I  am 
no  coward ! "  the  girl  said,  contemptuously. 

Mott  stood  irresolute  for  an  instant;  then,  picking  up  a  pack  of  cards  he 
held,  he  flung  them  full  in  Ulrica's  proud,  beautiful  face. 

She  gave  one  cry  of  horror,  and  put  up  her  hand  to  her  fair  cheek,  on 
which  the  blood  was  flowing  slowly  down  fiom  a  cut  inflicted  by  one  sharp 
edge. 

"  You  pitiful  coward ! "  she  said  slowly,  from  between  her  pallid  lips. 


140  HER  FATAL   SIN. 

Mott  uttered  an  oath,  and  lifted  his  hand  again,  but  Carter  flung  himself 
forward. 

"  Enough  of  this,  old  man !  Let  her  go !  We  may  be  come  down,  but 
we  ain't  quite  so  low  as  striking  a  woman  yet." 

Ulrica,  with  one  backward  look  of  horror,  went  slowly  from  the  room. 

She  heard  the  two  men  quarreling  inside,  but  the  sound  never  broke  her 
composure. 

"  It  is  the  end, "  was  her  thought.     "  I  can  bear  no  more. " 

She  mounted  the  stairs  to  her  room  once  more  ;  she  seemed  moved  by 
some  influence  other  than  her  own  will.  The  insult  of  the  blow  stood 
before  her  eyes ;  a  voice  rang  in  her  ears : 

"  Go  —  escape !    Now  is  the  time.    They  will  drink  on  for  hours.     Go ! " 

She  stood  silent  for  an  instant ;  then  every  pulse  within  her  leaped. 

"  Yes,  I  will  go.  Anywhere  will  be  purer  —  willbebetter  —  thanthis.  It 
is  contamination  to  breathe  the  same  air  with  him  longer !  I  have  been  mad 
to  bear  it  so  long ;  I  am  sane  now.  God  knows  I  have  tried  to  remember 
the  vows  I  took  —  tried  to  crush  the  hatred,  the  memory  of  his  cruel  deceit 
and  trickery — to  think  of  him  as  the  man  I  had  sworn  to  love  and  obey. 
But  I  can  do  so  no  longer.  I  will  escape ;  it  matters  little  where.  If  I 
die  — well,  death  has  been  before  me  often  —  I  am  ready ! " 

While  she  thought,  she  was  drawing  a  dark  cloak  over  her  dress  and 
taking  her  purse  with  the  money  that  had  lain  in  it  ever  since  the  day  she 
had  taken  it  in  exchange  for  her  ring ;  she  had  had  no  need  of  money 
before. 

Slowly  she  stole  down  the  stairs,  her  handkerchief  pressed  to  her  wounded 
face. 

In  the  hall  she  stopped. 

She  heard  the  two  men  talking. 

"  You  were  a  fool.  I  tell  you  Moseley  was  dead  struck  on  her ;  and  is 
this  a  moment  to  indulge  in  tomfoolery  about  being  jealous.  Jealous! 
why,  if  you  have  felt  much  love  for  your  wife,  Horace  Mott,  you  have  kept 
it  well  hidden,  my  son;  that's  alL" 

"Love  her,"  muttered  Mott;   "I  think  there  is  some  spell  about  her. 

She  drives  me  mad.     She  is  my  wife — I  won  her Well,  that's  my 

affair.  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  robbing  a  man  I  hated,  and  for  what  ? 
To  be  scorned  —  mocked  at!  Heavens,  if  you  felt  as  I  did,  Carter,  you 
would  not  call  it  tomfoolery !  But  there,  the  end  must  come  ;  and,  if  I 
kill  her,  I  will  break  her  coldness  and  make  her  turn  to  me,  if  not  of  her 
own  free  will,  then  by  mine ! " 

"  Meanwhile,  encourage  Moseley.  He  has  heaps  of  money,  I  tell  you. 
She  must  be  the  magnet  that  will  draw  it  to  our  nets. " 

Ulrica  glided  on  with  a  shudder. 

She  slipped  open  the  door  carefully,  and  then  held  her  breath  as  she 
closed  it. 

"  The  end  must  come, "  she  repeated  — "  the  end  has  come,  Horace 
Mott !  I  am  gone  from  you,  pray  God,  forever ! " 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  141 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

[LL  was  still.  The  distant  rumble  of  wheels  in  the  thoroughfare  be- 
yond was  the  only  sound  that  came  to  Ulrica's  ears.  Her  strength 

egan   o  fail. 

It  would  be  many  weary  hours  till  morning,  and  she  had  no  shelter  be- 
fore her. 

But  this  was  nothing — no  horror  at  all,  as  she  recalled  what  she  was 
leaving.  A  sink  of  iniquity  and  shame,  in  which  her  womanhood  was  to 
be  debased,  her  honor  degraded,  her  beauty  turned  into  a  snare  —  a  lure 
for  filthy  gain  ! 

The  thought  revived  her  courage. 

She  took  a  few  steps  to  the  right. 

"  I  will  walk  about  slowly  till  early  dawn,  then  I  must  go  to  some  station 
and  wait  there  till  —  till  I  have  made  some  plans.  Courage,  Ulrica  — 
cou " 

The  words  died  away  in  a  frightened  sob. 

A  dark  object  had  glided  away  from  the  railings  and  stood  in  her  path. 

It  was  a  woman — a  gaunt,  haggard  woman,  seen  in  the  fitful  light  of  the 
lamp. 

"  Who  are  you  ?     What  do  you  want  ?  "  faltered  Ulrica,  shrinking  back. 

"  You  are  Horace  Mott's  wife  —  the  girl  he  forced,  through  his  deceit, 
to  marry  him  ?  " 

The  voice,  harsh  and  thick  as  it  was,  sounded  familiar  to  Ulrica. 

"  I  am,"  she  replied.     "  What  of  it  ?  " 

"  This  :  You  want  a  friend  ?  Ah,  I  see  it  by  your  face.  I  have  waited 
all  night  there  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  you — if  possible,  speak  to  you,  but 
was  giving  it  up  as  hopeless  when  you  came  out.  Some  instinct  must  have 
led  me  to  you  to-night.  You  want  aid.  Where  are  you  going  at  this  late 
hour  ?  " 

Ulrica  passed  a  hand  over  her  brow. 

As  she  did  so,  the  other  caught  sight  of  the  blood  on  her  cheek.  She 
checked  a  sudden  exclamation. 

"  Trust  me.  By  all  you  hold  sacred,  I  swear  I  am  your  friend.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  seek  freedom  and  forgetfulness, "  whispered  Ulrica. 

The  old  woman  drew  her  hand  through  her  arm. 

"  And  I  will  help  you.  Ah,  you  don't  remember,  child,  yet  your  pale, 
pleading  face  has  been  stamped  on  my  heart  night  and  day.  I  am  the 
woman  who  refused  you  aid  when  you  asked  for  it.  I  am  that  poor,  blind, 
besotted  tool  of  Horace  Mott's  who  would  not  listen  to  you.  Ah,  child, 
child,  don't  shrink  from  me !  I  am  Graves.  I  have  lived  for  this  day,  when 
I  could  pour  out  my  aching  heart  to  you,  help  you  to  the  beginning  of  a 
new  life,  please  God,  and  the  end  of  all  your  miseries.  Come  home  with 
me — come  home ! " 

Ulrica  let  herself  be  dragged  along ;  she  was  bewildered  and  weak. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "she  asked  faintly. 

"  It  means  revenge ! "  muttered  Graves  ;  and,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
the  young  girl  and  the  old  woman  passed  away  into  the  darkness 
together. 


HER   FATAL    SIN. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

MRS.  WREN'S  house,  near  Regent's  Park,  was  3ttle  more  than  a  cot- 
tage, but  it  was  surrounded  by  a  garden,  both  pretty  and  spacious, 
and  every  corner  and  nook  of  the  rambling  old-fashioned  residence  was 
beloved  by  Chattie. 

Connie  turned  her  nose  up  at  it ;  her  ambition  soared  to  Dunworthy 
Castle,  and  there  was  no  room  for  sentiment  in  her  worldly  breast. 

One  afternoon,  just  before  the  close  of  the  London  season,  when  the 
sun  was  hot  and  brilliant,  and  the  flowers  were  budding  and  scenting  the 
air  with  their  fragrance,  a  crowd  of  smartly-dressed  people  wended  their 
way  to  Mrs.  Wren's  abode  for  a  garden-party. 

Connie,  dainty  in  pink  from  parasol  to  shoe,  received  one  and  all  with 
an  air  of  fashionable  lassitude,  but  beneath  it  her  heart  was  throbbing 
wildly  and  her  pulses  thrilling. 

"  Surely  he  will  come.  He  must  come !  Lady  Dunworthy  declared  he 
would." 

It  was  of  Sir  John  she  thought. 

Nearly  three  weeks  had  gone  since  that  morning  in  the  Park  when  the 
news  of  John  Dunworthy's  return  reached  her,  and  yet  he  had  never 
appeared  to  her  and  made  no  sign  until  this  day,  when  his  mother  had 
promised  most  faithfully  on  his  account  that  he  would  attend  the  party. 

In  another  corner  stood  Chattie. 

Her  slim  young  form  was  garbed  in  white,  a  large  broad-brimmed  hat 
shaded  her  face,  which  grew  more  piquant  every  day  ;  the  sun  picked  out 
the  gold  in  her  ruddy  curls  and  lit  up  the  strange  hue  in  her  eyes.  She  was 
not  one  whit  so  pretty  as  her  sister,  yet  attracted  far  more  notice. 

For  some  time  she  chatted  generally  with  the  groups  of  people  as  they 
arrived  ;  then,  after  a  little  while,  she  found  herself  alone  with  one  man, 
and  they  sauntered  into  a  quiet  path  alone. 

"  Well,"  breathed  Chattie,  "  what  news?  " 

"  We  have  found  Mott,"  replied  Lord  Eric ;  "  he  went  over  to  Paris  for 
a  week  or  so,  but  there  is  no  sign  of  her. " 

Chattie's  cheeks  were  fading  as  white  as  her  gown. 

"  What  can  have  happened?  Lord  Eric,  do  —  do  you  think  he  has  killed 
her  ?  " 

The  words  were  barely  whispered. 

The  young  man  shook  his  head  decidedly. 

"  No  ;  of  that  I  am  certain.  She  has  fled  from  him,  and  he  can  find  her 
no  easier  than  we  can.  I  have  learned  through  several  sources  that  Mott  is 
like  a  madman.  Did  he  love  her  so  much?  " 

"  Love  her !  "  repeated  Chattie  in  accents  of  mingled  scorn  and  anger. 
"  What  did  he  know  of  love?  He  dragged  her  down,  broke  her  heart  — 
stamped  on  it;  then  by  threats  forced  her  to  marry  him.  Love!  Horace 
Mott!  But  let  us  forget  him.  Poor — poor  Ulrica !  Lord  Eric,  we  loved 
one  another  more  than  sisters.  She  was  so  pure  —  so  true  —  so  sweet." 

There  were  tears  in  Chattie's  eyes  as  she  finished. 

"  The  thought  comes,"  she  went  on  quickly,  "  if  she  has  ended  it  all 
herself. " 

"  You  mean,  that  she  has  killed  herself  ?  " 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  143 

Chattie  nodded  her  head. 

Lord  Eric  looked  grave,  but  he  answered  very  cheerfully  . 
"  Oh  no,  no  ;  we  must  not  think  that.     We  shall  find  her  — be  sure  of 
that.     I  am  most  hopeful —  most  hopeful." 

"  How  good  you  are,"  murmured  Chattie;  "  and  when  we  find  her  I  shall 
telegraph  straight  to  Uncle  Guy.  He  will  take  her  back  to  Bathurst,  and 
we  shall  keep  her  to  ourselves." 

"  Secrets ! "  laughed  a  shrill  gay  voice. 

And  turning,  they  saw  Connie  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  handsome  grave- 
faced  young  man. 

He  s'epped  forward,  slipping  Connie's  hand  on  one  side  to  grasp  Chat- 
tie's  two  eager  ones. 

"  Johnnie  Jack ! " 

"Dear  little  Chattie!" 

That  was  all ;  but  what  volumes  of  meaning  in  those  five  words ! 

Sir  John  stood  holding  Chattie's  fingers,  as  though  he  touched  some 
haven  after  a  long  and  troubled  passage.  Neither  spoke  then;  their  hearts 
were  too  full 

Connie  frowned  and  broke  in  with: 

"  Come  Chattie,  if  you  welcome  Sir  John  so  warmly,  Basil  will  be  quite 
jealous. 

"  I  don't  think  Basil  would  grudge  me  anything — not  even  this,"  said 
Sir  John. 

And  stooping,  he  touched  Chattie's  lips  with  his. 

Connie  felt  jealous  even  of  her  sister.  Sir  John  had  welcomed  her 
warmly,  but  with  not  a  tithe  as  much  pleasure  as  he  showed  in  his  meeting 
with  Chattie. 

"  We  must  not  keep  you,  Johnnie  Jack,"  said  Chattie,  forcing  herself  to 
speak  lightly.  "  Lord  Eric,  too,  must  take  me  back  to  the  rest.  Mother 
will  want  me." 

And  slipping  her  hand  through  Lord  Eric's  arm,  Chattie  moved  away. 

"  Let  me  have  your  news  as  soon  as  you  get  any,"  she  murmured;  "  I  am 
not  going  away  yet. " 

Sir  John  glanced  after  her  with  a  sigh,  but  Connie  pretended  not  to 
hear  it. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  with  a  pretty  little  laugh,  "  I  look  upon  you  as  my 
property.  I  am  your  nurse,  you  must  remember. " 

"  Indeed  I  shall  never  forget,"  the  young  man  answered  gravely;  "  I  can- 
not try  to  thank  you " 

"  I  want  no  thanks  —  only  tell  me  about  your  travels,  and  what  you  have 
been  doing. " 

"  I  fear  I  have  forgotten  everything  of  interest,"  was  his  reply. 

Connie  bit  her  lip. 

Was  his  mind  rooted  to  that  girl,  and  after  all  she  had  done,  too? 
Really  it  was  most  provoking. 

"  But  won't  you  try  and  think  of  something  very  thrilling?  "  she  asked, 
glancing  up  at  him  with  a  sweet  smile. 

Sir  John  woke  from  his  gloomy  thoughts.  His  conscience  smote  him 
as  he  remembered  all  the  supposed  kindness  Connie  had  shown  him. 

"  Let  us  sit  here, "  he  said  as  they  came  to  the  chairs,  "  and  I  will  do  my 
best." 

The  afternoon  glided  on. 

To  Connie  it  was  a  paradise  —  a  very  heaven  of  delight.     The  goal  for 


144  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

which  she  had  worked  so  nard  was  actually  in  sight ;  her  spirits  rose  to  the 
very  acme  of  bliss. 

At  last  the  sun  began  to  descend.  Mrs.  Wren's  guests  took  their  leave. 
There  were  dinners,  the  last  ball  of  the  season  to  attend,  and  fashion 
flowed  from  Regent's  Park  to  the  West  End. 

Lady  Dunworthy  and  her  son  were  the  two  last  to  depart,  the  mother 
looking,  if  anything,  more  pompous  and  sententious  than  ever. 

"  I  have  persuaded  this  dear  girl  to  pay  us  a  long  visit  at  Dunworthy, 
John,"  she  said,  patting  Connie's  hand. 

"  Say  you  will  be  glad  to  see  me,"  whispered  Connie,  coquettishly. 

"  I  think  you  know  that,"  was  his  answer,  given  courteously,  but  with  no 
warmth.  He  was  indifferent  as  to  whether  she  came  or  not. 

To  Chattie  he  said  nothing,  only  their  hands  lingered  in  the  farewell 
grasp,  and  their  eyes,  meeting,  filled  full  with  tears. 
******* 

"  But  I  am  strong  now  —  quite  -j-  quite  strong. " 

Ulrica  spoke  the  words  with  a  faint  smile.  Graves  looked  at  her  in 
silence. 

Was  it  not  the  girl's  spirit  she  had  rescued  from  that  brief,  fiery  struggle 
between  the  brain  and  the  madness  of  fever?  Ulrica  was  so  frail,  so  thin, 
so  white,  she  did  not  seem  human. 

"  Are  you  so  anxious  to  leave  me?  "  asked  the  woman,  speaking  at 
length. 

The  girl  stretched  out  her  worn  hand  and  caught  the  other's  work-stained 
one  to  her  lips. 

"  You  know  I  do  not  mean  that,"  she  answered;  "but  I  long  for  air.  I 
long  to  get  away,  Graves.  My  heart  aches  in  this  city — it  burns  and 
aches ! " 

"  I  will  ask  the  doctor  to-night,  and  if  he  says  you  may  travel,  I  will 
take  you  to  the  sea. " 

Ulrica  murmured,  "  the  sea,"  softly,  to  herself j  then  another  thought 
came. 

"  Graves,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  "what  about  money?  Oh,  forgive  me;  I 
am  utterly  helpless  to  do  anything  for " 

The  older  woman  stooped  over  the  chair  at  the  window. 

"  You  are  my  child, "  she  answered,  tenderly ;  "  my  dear  child,  that  I  will 
willingly  care  for  to  the  end  of  my  days,  if  I  may." 

They  clasped  each  other's  hands,  then  Graves  turned  away;  there  was  an 
eager,  almost  excited  look  on  her  face. 

"  Dr.  Greenwood  can't  come  himself  this  evening;  he  is  going  to  send 
some  one  else. " 

"  I  don't  think  I  want  a  doctor  now,"  Ulrica  said,  moving  her  head,  from 
which  all  the  luxuriant  hair  had  been  shorn,  to  and  fro  on  the  chair. 

"  Don't  you?  "    Graves  smiled  faintly.    "  I  think  you  do." 

"  But  if  he  says  I  may  go  to  the  sea,  how  can  I  take  you  from  your  home? 
You  have  your  work  to  do. " 

The  older  woman  stood  silent  for  a  second. 

"Yes;  I  have  work  to  do,"  she  repeated,  bitterly;  "but  that  can  wait 
till » 

«  Till  what?  "  asked  Ulrica. 

"  Till  you  are  better.  Now,  I  want  you  to  get  to  sleep  for  a  while,  and 
to  look  your  best  when  the  doctor  comes. " 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  145 

"Ulrica  sent  a  smile  of  grateful  sweetness  to  the  worn  face,  and  rested 
back  with  a  sigh  of  utter  weakness,  yet  of  a  consciousness  of  peace  as 
she  was  left  alone. 

She  clung  to  this  woman  —  this  strange,  abruptly-mannered,  yet  gentle 
nurse,  whose  tenderness  had  been  without  limit*  whose  care  was  never 
diminished. 

Graves  seemed  now  her  only  friend  ;  the  others,  whom  she  loved,  stood 
as  so  many  spirit-forms  in  the  background,  inexpressibly  dear,  bu<.  unap- 
proachable. 

A  chasm  of  misery  and  shame  stretched  between  herself  and  them.  It 
must  never  be  bridged  over,  at  least  by  her,  so  she  determined. 

With  Graves  it  was  different  ;  there  was  some  bond  of  sympathy  and 
suffering  between  them,  though  Ulrica  knew  not  what  its  nature  was. 

Graves  had  been  instrumental  in  aiding  her  to  sorrow ;  now  she  held 
forth  her  hand  to  help  her  from  that  load  of  trouble,  and  Ulrica  did  not 
disdain  to  grasp  that  nand. 

In  a  dim,  mysterious  way,  she  had  some  recollection  of  the  word 
"revenge,"  uttered  that  night  as  they  stole  away  in  the  shadows;  but 
illness  had  followed  so  swiftly,  she  could  not  recall  exactly  what  had 
occurred,  and  she  had  not  spoken  to  Graves  once  on  the  subject,  or  even 
breathed  her  husband's  detested  name. 

By-and-by,  lying  back  in  her  chair,  her  thoughts  wandered  into  a  peace- 
ful dream ;  her  weak,  weary  limbs  relaxed  ;  her  hands  lay  on  her  lap  ;  her 
white,  sweet,  sad  face,  from  which  every  gleam  of  youth  seemed  gone,  lay 
in  the  evening  sunshine  still  in  sleep. 

The  door  opening  softly  did  not  rouse  her,  nor  the  approach  of  some  one 
to  her  side. 

Some  happy  bygone  time  must  have  flitted  across  the  vision  of  her 
dream,  for  her  pale  lips  parted,  and  she  smiled ;  then  the  smile  faded,  and 
a  weary,  patient  look  dawned  on  her  face  again. 

"  How  changed ! "  whispered  the  silent  watcher ;  "  how  changed !  " 

Ulrica  moved  in  her  sleep,  but  still  the  onlooker  never  stirred.  A  mist  of 
hushed  tea^s  stole  over  his  sight,  and  blotted  out  the  picture  for  an  instant. 

Then  the  vague  consciousness  of  another's  presence  seemed  to  come  to 
Ulrica.  Her  hands  trembled,  her  lips  parted,  her  eyelids  lifted  slowly. 

There  was  an  instant's  pause,  a  sudden  rising  in  the  chair,  a  look  of  de- 
light, then  acute  disappointment  in  the  star-like  sapphire  eyes  as  she  sank 
back  murmuring : 

"  Only  a  dream — again  a  dream!" 

"  No,  it  is  no  dream,  Ulrica,"  spoke  a  strong  voice,  which  seemed  con- 
centrated with  emotion  ;  "look  again,  dear,  right  into  my  face." 

Ulrica  felt  her  hands  clasped,  herself  drawn  into  sitting  position  ;  her 
gaze  met  the  steady  wooing  gaze  of  eyes  that  had  never  left  her  memory, 
and  with  a  sob  of  joy  she  cried  faintly  : 

"  Uncle  Guy,  at  last  —  at  last !    Oh,  thank  God ! " 

Guy  drew  the  frail  form  into  his  arms ;  he  was  kneeling  beside  her,  and 
pressed  his  lips  to  her  brow. 

"  Yes,  Ulrica,  at  last  ;  and,  by  Heaven's  will,  forever  now.  My  poor 
lamb,  my  child,  my  dear  one !  " 

"  Uncle  Guy —  Uncle  Guy ! "  she  murmured  every  now  and  then  with  a 
catch  in  her  voice  ;  "  at  last !  " 

C^iy's  heart  thrilled  with  the  joy  he  could  not  repress  at  the  delight  sha 
showed  ;  but  the  joy  was  fleeting  ;  the  pain  called  up  by  her  changed  ap- 

1O 


146  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

pearance  and  the  knowledge  of  her  position  lived  longer  and  more 
bitterly. 

"  Tell  me, "  murmured  the  girl,  as  Guy  drew  up  a  chair  and  smoothed 
back  the  soft,  short,  wavy  locks  from  her  hot  brow  —  "  tell  me  how  —  how 
did  you  find  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  here  often  before.  All  through  your  illness  I  came  night 
and  day,  but  I  would  not  see  you  till  you  were  better.  I  will  tell  you  how 
you  were  discovered,  but  not  now — another  time,  dear." 

Ulrica  held  his  hand  tightly  clasped  between  her  two  hot  ones. 

"  Oh,  the  happiness,  the  joy,  to  feel  your  hand,  to  know  it  is  no  myth, 
but  you  yourself  sitting  here !  "  she  said,  lifting  her  great,  glorious  eyes  to 
his.  "  I  have  pictured  it  so  often  in  my  dreams,  I  can  scarcely  believe  it  is 
real  now. " 

"  I  can  testify  to  this  being  solid  flesh  and  blood,"  Guy  said  lightly, 
holding  up  his  hand ;  "  surely  it  is  substantial  enough,  Ulrica. " 

Ulrica  smiled  a  weak,  wan  smile. 

"  It  is  to  me  the  hand  of  an  angel,"  was  her  answer.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  and  then  she  asked,  in  low  tones:  "  And  mother  —  what  of 
her?  What  does  she  think  of  me  and  of  my  conduct?  " 

"  I  have  a  message  for  you  —  here  it  is.     You  can  read  for  yourself." 

Ulrica  took  the  tiny  note  with  trembling  fingers. 

"  When  will  my  adopted  child  come  back  to  me? "  she  read.  "  I  am 
waiting  for  her  with  all  the  love  of  old." 

The  paper  fluttered  down,  and  Ulrica's  lips  quivered  for  an  instant. 

"  I  cannot  go  back.  I  will  not  bring  disgrace  on  those  I  love,"  she 
whispered. 

"  You  did  not  notice  the  address,"  Guy  said  gently,  picking  up  the  note 
again.  "Look:  Belleview  Cottage,  Seamouth.  It  is  the  dearest,  quaintest 
little  place  in  the  world,  Ulrica.  I  took  my — our  mother  down  there 
about  a  fortnight  ago,  and  all  sorts  of  preparations  have  been  going  on 
since  in  honor  of  the  interesting  invalid." 

Ulrica  did  not  smile  as  he  finished;  she  was  gazing  out  of  the  window 
with  a  sad,  fixed  look,  and  her  hands  were  clasped  together. 

"Uncle  Guy,"  she  said,  after  a  while.  "I  cannot  go;  think  what  it 
would  be  if — if  he  found  me.  The  very  thought  of  him  approaching  any 
of  you  whom  I  love  sends  a  shiver  through  me;  then  think,  dear  —  think," 
she  went  on  hurriedly  —  "  if  —  if  he  came,  I  should  have  to  go  with  him, 
and  the  misery  after  my  brief  glimpse  of  Paradise  would  be  too  great.  I 
could  not  bear  it  — no,  no;  I  could  not  bear  it ! " 

Guy  bent  and  touched  her  forehead  with  his  lips. 

"  Ulrica,  be  at  peace,  dear.  Your  —  he  will  not  molest  you,  for  a  time 
at  least.  He  is  out  of  England,  and  I  do  not  think  he  will  return  just 
yet. " 

"  Gone ! "  said  the  girl  with  feverish  eagerness;  "  really  gone !  But  where, 
Uncle  Guy  —  where?" 

"  To  America,  I  believe." 

Ulrica  breathed  a  deep  sigh. 

"The  very  air  seems  clearer,"  she  murmured,  closing  her  eyes  for  an 
instant. 

Guy  did  not  speak  till  she  looked  up  again. 

"  You  will  come,  Ulrica,"  was  all  he  said. 

"  Give  me  one  moment  to  think,"  was  her  answer.  "  But  first,  tell  me 
why  has  he  gone?  "  1 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  147 

"  He  has  sailed  with  two  or  three  others  —  for  amusement,  I  presume; 
and  also  in  furtherance  of  some  financial  speculation. " 

Guy  spoke  cautiously.  He  did  not  intend  that  she  should  learn  the 
truth,  at  least  yet  —  that  Horace  Mott  had  had  to  depart  hastily  from  the 
metropolis,  and,  indeed,  vanish  from  England  for  a  time,  in  consequence  of 
an  ugly  fracas  and  exposure  at  his  ecarte  table.  It  was  sufficient  for  him 
that  Mott  was  gone  and  Ulrica  was  free  for  a  short  while. 

He  rose  as  he  ended  the  words  and  sauntere.l  away. 

Ulrica  sat  very  still,  thinking  and  thinking.  Her  mind  was  full  of  a 
complex  variety  of  thoughts,  pain,  and  pleasure  ;  a  shudder  of  remem- 
brance and  a  thrill  of  anticipation,  disgust,  and  love  jostled  one  another 
together,  and  at  last  the  brief  struggle  was  over. 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  Guy's  eyes,  though  his  lips  were  mute,  as  she  looked 
across  at  him. 

She  stretched  out  her  hand. 

"  Yes, "  she  whispered  ;  "  I  can  resist  no  longer  ;  take  me  home  to  her  ; 
let  me  taste  some  joy  once  more  before  I  die! " 

"  Die !  "  repeated  Guy,  his  voice  choked  by  emotion.  "  Live,  Ulrica, 
my  darling!  Live,  to  give  us  gladness  for  days  to  come." 

Ulrica  smiled  a  peaceful,  contented  smile;  then  she  looked  down,  and  a 
shade  fell  over  her  face. 

"  One  thing  more,"  she  murmured.  "  I  cannot  meet  Jack  —  that  is  be- 
yond me,  Uncle  Guy. " 

"  Nor  shall  your  strength  be  tried.  Jack  knows  nothing ;  be  comforted, 
and  trust  in  me. " 

"  I  will ! "  cried  Ulrica,  pressing  her  lips  to  his  hand ;  "  I  will,  for  you 
have  never  failed, " 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"JOHN!" 

J     "  Mother !" 

"  Come  and  settle  with  us  about  the  lawn-tennis  tournament." 

"Oh,  yes,  Sir  John,  please." 

Connie  managed  to  put  any  amount  of  pretty  eloquence  in  the  last 
word. 

Sir  John,  who  was  intent  on  looking  through  a  Bradshaw,  rose  from  his 
chair  by  the  open  window  as  the  two  ladies  approached  it  on  the  terrace. 
He  kept  his  finger  between  the  pages  still;  his  face  looked  handsome 
as  of  yore,  yet  he  wore  a  careworn,  wearied  expression. 

"Tournament,  mother  1  This  is  the  first  I  have  heard  of  it,"  he  said 
half  irritably. 

Lady  Dunworthy  looked  annoyed. 

"  I  don't  know  where  your  ears  have  been  then,  for  we  have  discussed  it 
openly  for  three  days." 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  feel  equal  to  the  task  of  entertaining  in  this  sultry 
weather,"  Connie  added  in  her  gentlest  way;  "it  really  does  sound  ex- 
hausting. " 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  a  question  of  strength,"  Sir  John  answered  with  a  faint 
smile  in  her  direction;  he  was  always  touched  bvher  smooth  discretion  and 
thoughtfulness  when  with  her. 


148  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

She  vanished  from  his  mind  as  soon  as  her  gossamer  draperies  were 
wafted  away. 

"  Of  what,  then?  "  asked  his  mother,  tightening  her  lips  in  an  ominous 
fashion. 

"  Of  inclination,"  he  replied  shortly;  -:  and  on  that  score  I  beg  to  veto 
the  lawn-tennis  tournament  altogether. " 

Lady  Dunworthy's  lace  cap  quivered  with  her  wrath. 

"  Really,  John,  you  are  most  trying;  you  know  we  must  give  our  usual 
entertainment  to  the  country,  and  instead  of  helping,  you  are  only  an  ob- 
struction. " 

Sir  John's  handsome  brow  darkened. 

"  What  if  I  refuse  to  give  any  entertainment  at  all?  "  he  asked  in  a  way 
he  had  never  assumed  before. 

His  mother's  temper  was  soon  roused. 

She  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"  What  ?  Why,  you  will  afford  more  food  for  gossip  than  you  have 
already. " 

Connie  could  have  willingly  hit  Lady  Dunworthy,  but  she  kept  a  smil- 
ing face. 

"  Oh,  dear !  how  sorry  I  am ;  the  tournament  was  all  my  idea,  Sir 
John." 

Sir  John's  frown  vanished  slowly,  and  Lady  Dunworthy  turned  on  her 
heel  and  sailed  angrily  away. 

Connie  leaned  against  the  window,  round  which  the  roses  and  honey- 
suckle nodded  and  gave  forth  their  sweetness  to  the  air. 

She  made  a  pretty  picture,  in  her  pale  blue  batiste  gown,  exquisitely 
made,  with  her  yellow  locks  bunched  in  studied  artistic  disorder  in  a  coil 
in  the  nape  of  her  neck. 

She  sent  a  deprecating  look  to  the  young  man,  who  stood  moodily  gaz- 
ing across  the  lawn,  and  said  with  half  a  sigh: 

"  You  have  been  vexed  again,  and  all  through  me. " 

"  Through  you! "  Sir  John  repeated,  rousing  himself;  "  indeed  no,  Con- 
nie. You  do  nothing  that  ever  vexes  me. " 

She  turned  her  head  away  to  hide  the  triumph  that  would  come,  and 
spoke  gently: 

"  Poor  Lady  Dunworthy !  You  must  not  be  hard  on  her.  She  is  Con- 
servative to  the  backbone,  and  the  thought  of  not  giving  the  usual  summer 
fete  troubles  her.  We  ought  to  think  of  that,  Sir  John,  and  act  accord- 
ingly." 

"  You  have  a  kind  heart,"  said  Sir  John,  with  a  smile.  "  Of  course,  if 
my  mother  is  disappointed,  that  is  another  matter  ;  but  —  but  she  expresses 
herself  so  strangely. " 

"  It  is  not  every  one  who  possesses  tact." 

"  Indeed  no,"  Sir  John  agreed  heartily. 

Connie  smiled,  then  touching  the  Bradshaw  he  held  with  her  dainty 
white  hand,  she  asked  : 

"  Pray,  why  that  book  ?     Don't  —  oh,  don't  say  you  are  going  away. " 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  I  had  serious  thoughts  of  so  doing,"  he  replied, 
smiling  ;  "  but  if  you  command " 

"I  do  not  command  —  I  plead,"  was  Connie's  answer,  delivered  with 
the  accompaniment  of  a  blush. 

"  Then  naught  remains  but  to  yield. " 

*  Give  up  the  book  1" 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  149 

Connie  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  with  a  low  bow  Sir  John  renounced 
his  Bradshaw. 

"  So  far  so  good,"  she  observed.  "  Now,  are  you  busy,  or  can  you 
spare  me  time  to  stroll  round  and  listen  to  my  suggestions  for  this  afore- 
said fete  ?  " 

"  I  am  at  your  service. " 

Sir  John  stepped  onto  the  terrace,  but  the  fleeting  look  of  amusement  had 
vanished  from  his  face.  He  was  grave  again,  as  he  turned  beside  Connie 
and  sauntered  away. 

"  We  ought  to  have  Chattie  here  for  this,"  he  said,  forcing  himself  to  be 
conversational. 

Connie  frowned,  unseen  by  him. 

"  Oh,  Chattie  is  too  much  wrapped  up  in  Basil's  home-coming  to  care  for 
anything  else. " 

"  When  does  Basil  arrive  ?  " 

"  Some  time  this  week." 

"  And  when  is  this  tournament  to  be  ?  " 

"  Wednesday  next. " 

"  Oh,  then  perhaps  Basil  and  Chattie  could  both  come,"  said  Sir  John. 

**  **  *  *  *  »  *  » 

A  week  had  gone  by  since  their  morning  stroll.  Connie  and  Sir  John 
had  had  many  others,  but  in  none  of  them  did  the  conversation  get  be- 
yond the  most  ordinary  topics  of  the  day.  Still  Connie's  heart  grew 
more  and  more  elated,  and  Lady  Dunworthy,  seeing  her  son  enter  almost 
warmly  into  her  arrangements,  was  most  beaming  and  genial. 

Sir  John  spent  a  wretched  week.  The  thought  that  Connie  loved  him 
had  forced  itself  into  absolute  conviction  as  day  passed  day. 

His  Heart  had  been  touched  by  Connie's  sympathetic  friendship  ;  but, 
beyond  that,  he  had  no  thought,  one  way  or  another,  for  this  girl. 

"I  shall  never  love  but  you,  my  darling,"  he  would  murmur  to  Ulrica's 
image  enshrined  in  his  inmost  soul.  "You,  my  angel,  my  spirit  of  loveli- 
ness! how  could  I  do  ought  but  love  you  ?  And  yet  —  oh,  my  God  —  you 
are  gone  from  me  forever.  Ulrica — Ulrica!" 

Wednesday,  the  day  chosen  for  Dunworthy  Castle  summer  fete,  dawned 
gloriously  hot  and  beautiful. 

As  the  truth  about  Connie  forced  itself  upon  Sir  John  Dunworthy,  he 
grew  uneasy  and  miserable. 

"  I  will  go  away.  It  is  not  fair  to  be  with  her  when  I  know  I  can  never 
be  anything  to  her.  She  is  so  good — so  young,  too.  She  will  grow  out  of  it 
soon.  Yes  I  will  go  away. " 

As  Connie  dressed  for  the  entertainment,  she  smiled  to  herself  in  the 
mirror. 

"  To-day,  Madame  Ulrica,  I  shall  put  my  foot,  figuratively,  upon  you.  I 
shall  win.  He  suspects  that  I  love  him.  Well,  call  it  love  if  he  likes.  I 
am  determined  to  be  his  wife,  and  to-day  shall  see  that  result  announced, 
or  else  my  name  is  not  Connie  Wren. " 

Her  toilet,  more  dainty  than  ever,  provoked  a  murmur  of  admiration 
among  Lady  Dunworthy's  guests. 

"  How  Mrs.  Wren  contrived  to  dress  her  like  that  is  a  puzzle  to  me," 
was  the  remark  made  confidently  more  than  once. 

Connie,  moving  about  in  her  gown  of  white  moirfe  silk,  draped  with  real 
Valenciennes  lace,  could  have  satisfied  their  curiosity  at  once  if  she  had 
taken  them  up-stairs  and  shown  them  a  bulky  document  just  received  from 


150  "SER  FATAL  SIN. 

Madame  Amina,  the  contents  of  which  her  mother  knew  nothing  about, 
and  which,  as  Sir  John's  future  wife,  Connie  determined  should  trouble  her 
very  little. 

Having  in  view  the  fact  that  to-day  must  end  the  matter,  Connie 
played  her  part  accordingly. 

She  looked  paler,  more  delicate  than  ordinarily. 

Her  face  wore  a  serious,  though  tender  look.  Whenever  she  met  Sir 
John's  gaze,  she  affected  to  smile  easily,  then  bit  her  lip  and  turned  sud- 
denly away  —  all  of  which  worked  upon  him  even  better  than  she  could 
ever  have  dreamed. 

Love  and  sorrow  make  us  wondrous  kind. 

As  he  suffered  himself,  so  John  Dunworthy,  without  a  particle  of  vanity, 
imagined  Connie  to  be  suffering  on  his  account,  and  it  pained  him  beyond 
words. 

He  wandered  about  among  the  crowd,  wishing  that  he  were  miles  away, 
yet  winning  golden  opinions  from  everybody  for  his  genial  manner  and 
friendly  words. 

Lady  Dunworthy  watched  him,  and  her  selfish  nature  was  satisfied. 

"Connie  was  right,"  she  nodded  to  herself;  "he  only  wants  handling 
properly,  and  he  will  forget  that  creature  as  easily  as  we  could  wish." 

Forget  Ulrica!  Ah,  how  little  they  knew  this  man  —  how  little  they 
knew  the  depth,  the  intensity  with  which  he  clung  to  her  memory ! 

He  had  schooled  himself  to  think  of  her  as  Horace  Mott's  wife,  but  it 
was  a  task  almost  beyond  him. 

He  could  not  bear  to  recall  her  sweet,  exquisite  face,  and  know  that  she 
was  pledged  to  that  villain  from  whose  footstep  she  had  been  used  to 
shrink  as  from  a  reptile.  And  it  was  all  through  him  —  all  for  his  sake ! 
To  save  his  life  she  had  sacrificed  her  own.  The  bitterness  was  threefold 
when  he  remembered  that. 

Guy  had  told  him  Ulrica's  piteous  story  as  he  had  learnt  it  from  Dr. 
Drewitt,  and  it  was  only  by  force  of  will  that  he  had  prevented  Sir  John 
from  doing  murder. 

Mad  with  the  horrible  truth  ringing  in  his  ears,  Horace  Mott  would 
have  fared  ill  at  his  hands  had  not  Guy,  by  every  care,  prevented  a  meeting, 
and  kept  by  his  friend  till  Mott  was  lost  sight  of. 

Then  came  the  journey  abroad. 

That  weary  time  courting  forgetfulness,  yet  clinging  to  memories. 

And  now  John  Dunworthy  was  at  his  home  once  more,  and  Connie 
determined  he  should  remain  there,  at  all  events  for  a  period. 

The  tennis  tournament  was  a  great  success. 

The  band  from  London  discoursed  sweet  music  on  the  lawn,  and  Connie 
assisted  her  hostess  in  her  most  carefully  affectionate  way. 

Sir  John,  with  bis  burden  of  sorrow,  felt  out  of  place  and  miserable  in 
this  scene  of  gaiety  and  sunshine.  He  would  have  left  it  but  for  his  prom- 
ise to  Connie. 

"  She  begged  me  to  stay  to  please  my  mother,  "he  mused;  "she  little 
knew  the  task  she  put  on  me,  and  yet  I  can  scarcely  refuse.  She  has  done 
so  much  for  me,  and  she  suffers,  too. " 

He  thought  this  as  he  sauntered  along,  and  was  passing  behind  two 
chairs  and  two  sunshades,  beneath  which  were  two  ladies. 

At  this  moment  he  caught  the  mention  of  Connie's  name. 

"  Why  did  she  not  marry  young  Draycott?  "  said  one;  "  I  know  he  pro- 
posed." 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  151 

"  Why  has  she  not  married  long  before  this?  "  returned  the  other.  "  For 
one  and  the  same  reason,  and  that  is — at  least,  so  I  think,  and  many 
others,  too — that  she  has  some  hopeless  attachment  for  some  one  we  know 
nothing  of. " 

"  Well,  it  is  a  great  pity.  Connie  Wren  should  marry;  she  is  a  nice 
sensible  girl,  and " 

And  Sir  John  hurried  on. 

"A  hopeless  attachment!" 

There  was  the  verification  of  his  fear. 

Yes,  to-morrow  he  would  leave  his  home  again.  His  nature  shrank 
from  giving  further  pain,  and  were  he  to  be  with  Connie  a  hundred  years, 
he  said  to  himself,  things  would  never  change  —  Ulrica  would  reign 
triumphantly  as  his  love  forever. 

No  hint  or  suggestion  of  offering  marriage  to  Connie  crossed  his  mind  — 
it  would  have  seemed  to  him  almost  a  sin. 

The  afternoon  sun  declined,  the  tournament  raged  excitedly. 

Connie  had  refused  to  play. 

"I  don't  feel  equal  to  it,"  had  been  her  remark,  and  she  contented 
herself  with  relieving  Lady  Dunworthy  of  the  most  arduous  part  of 
entertaining. 

She  was  indeed  growing  weary  and  cross.      Why  did  not  Sir  John  speak? 

She  must  contrive  something  —  she  must  bring  about  the  conclusion  as 
she  had  arranged.  Her  sharp  brain  worked  busily. 

The  f£te  was  to  end  in  a  dance,  and  about  seven  o'clock  the  lawn-tennis 
was  finished. 

Connie,  with  a  young  man  beside  her  who  honestly  admired  her  pretti- 
ness,  went  for  a  short  stroll  before  dressing  for  the  evening. 

She  took  very  little  notice  of  her  companion's  chatter;  she  was  thinking. 

Little  by  little  they  wandered  into  the  quieter  part  of  the  grounds,  and 
then  her  quick  eyes  caught  a  glimpse  of  Sir  John  sauntering  alone,  deep  in 
thought. 

The  moment  was  come.  Just  as  they  reached  their  host,  Connie  gave  a 
faint  shriek,  jerked  her  foot,  and  fell  to  the  ground  before  either  *>{  the 
young  men  could  prevent  her. 

"You  are  hurt?"  cried  Sir  John,  turning  round,  and  stooping  to  lift 
her. 

"  My  foot ! "  whispered  Connie,  inaudibly;  and  then,  calling  up  all  her 
efforts,  she  relapsed  into  a  very  decent  semblance  of  a  faint  —  not  enough 
to  deceive  an  expert,  but  sufficient  to  take  in  both  the  men  beside  her. 

"  What  shall  we  do?  "  asked  her  late  companion. 

"  Run  to  the  house  for  some  water.  Don't  make  a  fuss,  or  you  may 
upset  my  mother.  Be  quick  1  She  must  have  twisted  her  foot  1 " 

The  young  man  darted  away. 

Connie  was  widely  awake  to  all  that  happened  ;  she  had  timed  it 
splendidly. 

It  must  take  ten  minutes  to  get  to  the  Castle  and  back  with  water,  and 
in  ten  minutes  a  battle  might  be  fought  —  a  kingdom  lost  —  why  not  a 
simple-minded  man's  sympathy,  if  not  love,  gained? 

She  rested  back  motionless  in  Sir  John's  arms ;  her  delicate  gown  would 
not  be  improved  by  so  close  an  acquaintance  with  the  ground,  but  what 
was  a  gown  to  the  stake  for  which  she  played  ? 

Sir  John  bent  over  her  in  genuine  sorrow  and  alarm,  and  uttered  a  true 
exclamation  of  gladness  as  she  opened  her  eyes. 


152  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

"  You  are  better  ?  I  am  so  relieved,"  he  said,  as  she  passed  one  hand 
over  her  brow. 

Connie  tried  to  smile. 

"  What  is  it  ?    Have  you  sprained  your  ankle,  do  you  think  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  no  ;  it  is  really  nothing.  See,  I  can  move  my  foot !  What  a  cow- 
ard you  must  think  me,  Sir  John,  to  faint  for  nothing. " 

"Indeed,  I  consider  you  no  coward,"  was  his  reply,  given  earnestly. 
"  Can  you  stand  ?  Let  me  help  you  ;  give  me  your  hand. " 

Connie  let  him  lift  her  to  her  feet  with  most  realistic  weakness. 

"  I  think  it  must  have  been  the  fright,"  she  said,  resting  against  a  tree, 
and  still  against  him  too.  "  But  I  am  not  very  strong.  The  heat  tired 

me,  and  —  and Don't  let  me  keep  you  here,  Sir  John.     I  am  all  right 

now,  indeed." 

~  "  Do  you  think  I  should  leave  you  as  you  are  ?  "  was  his  answer,  given 
with  a  touch  of  vexation  as  she  turned  her  face  away,  and  spoke  as  though 
tears  were  forcing  themselves  into  her  eyes  and  voice. 

Connie's  heart  thrilled. 

"  But  indeed  —  indeed  I  wish  you  would,"  she  whispered  faintly ;  "  I  —  I 
am  not  myself  to-day." 

"  I  shall  take  you  to  my  mother.  You  wart  rest ;  you  have  been  doing 
too  much.  Well,  you  will  have  quiet  soon,  for  I  shall  go  away  to-morrow, 
and  the " 

Connie  interrupted  him. 

"  Going  away  ?  "  she  said  with  a  wailing  inflection  in  her  voice  ;  "  I  — 
oh,  how  disappointed  your  mother  will  be ! 

Sir  John  was  silent. 

There  was  no  mistaking  it  now.  As  plain  as  could  be  said  by  broken 
words,  Connie  told  him  she  loved  him. 

He  shook  himself,  and  spoke  hurriedly. 

"  Yes  ;  my  home  is  not  pleasant  to  me  now.     I  cannot  stay  here." 

"  Not  when  love  bids  you  stay?  " 

It  was  a  bold  plunge,  but  it  was  done. 

Connie,  conscious  that  assistance  might  come  at  any  moment,  could  bear 
the  suspense  no  longer. 

Sir  John  turned  at  her  tender  whisper.  He  shrank  from  her  out- 
stretched hands. 

"  There  is  no  love  for  me,  for  I  can  give  none  in  return,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"  There  is  love  where  there  ever  has  been  love  for  you  —  in  my  heart," 
was  the  answer. 

He  stood  overwhelmed  with  the  miserable  awkwardness  of  the  moment. 

"Connie,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  cannot  ask  you  to  sacrifice  yourself  —  I 
cannot  ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  You  know  why.  You  know  I  love  Ulrica 
with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  Can  I  then  offer  you  an  empty  heart,  a  name  — 
nothing  more?  If  these  please  you,  take  them  ;  but  I  warn  you,  love  for 
another  can  never  come  ! " 

Connie  nestled  close  to  him. 

"  I  am  content,"  she  whispered,  "  if  I  am  near  you. " 

He  made  no  effort  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms  or  press  his  lips  to  hers. 

"  So  be  it,"  was  all  he  said. 

And  so  Connie's  betrothal  took  place  on  the  very  spot  where  Ulrica  had 
lifted  her  eyes  to  his  and  breathed  her  wondrous  love. 

Connie's  heart  beat  fast  with  triumph,  but  the  man's  was  as  cold  as  ice. 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  153 


CHAPTER  XXVH. 

6UY  left  Ulrica  early  on  that  evening  of  their  meeting ;  he  feared  the 
excitement  might  tell  on  her  frail  strength,  and  he  wanted  her  to  be 
able  to  travel  down  to  Seamouth  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 

Ulrica's  lovely  eyes  had  the  first  reflection  of  happiness  in  them  that 
Graves  had  ever  seen !  there  was  a  tremulous  beauty,  too,  in  her  sweet  lips 
and  the  faint  color  traced  on  her  white  cheeks. 

"  So  you  are  going  from  me?  "  the  older  woman  said  sadly,  as  she  ten- 
derly helped  the  sick  girl  to  rest. 

Ulrica  put  one  hand  in  hers. 

"  No  ;  you  will  come  with  me,  too  —  mother  will  welcome  you." 

Graves  shook  her  head. 

"No,  my  child." 

"  But  you  can  leave  your  house ;  you  have  no  ties — nothing  to  keep  you 
from  me." 

And  Ulrica  laid  her  head  on  the  other's  shoulders,  as  she  said  this, 
pleadingly. 

Graves  stroked  her  soft  hair  gently  ;  her  face  looked  stern  and  fixed,  yet 
her  eyes  were  tender  and  sad  as  they  rested  on  the  girl  nestling  close  to 
her. 

"  You  will  be  better  alone,  dear,"  she  answered  ;  then,  as  Ulrica  began 
to  protest,  she  continued :  "  Besides,  I  have  work  to  do,  a  mission  to  per- 
form, one —  one  that  may  take  time  and  trouble." 

"  But  why*not  wait  till  I  am  better?    Then  I  can  help  you  too." 

Against  herself  this  woman  shuddered. 

Let  Ulrica  share  in  her  task  of  vengeance  —  a  vengeance  to  be  hurled 
on  her  own  husband ! 

"  It  is  impossible,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 

Ulrica  was  silent  for  a  while,  but  when  her  head  sank  onto  her  soft  pil- 
lows, and  Graves  was  busying  herself  with  making  the  bed  comfortable, 
she  said  very  gently: 

"Forgive  me  for  asking — but  is  this  work  something  connected  with 
your  dead  child  ?  " 

Graves'  face  was  hidden,  but  her  voice  sounded  clear  as  she  answered: 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  a  message  from  the  dead.  I  must  fulfill  it,  even  though  it 
cost  me  my  life.  Now  you  are  not  to  talk  any  more ;  this  has  been  a  day 
of  great  excitement  to  you  ;  you  must  have  all  the  sleep  you  can  get,  for 
you  will  want  all  your  strength.  God  bless  you,  child ! " 

And  she  stole  softly  away,  leaving  Ulrica  in  a  state  of  new  peace,  with 
visions  of  past  and  future  happiness  flitting  before  her  weary  eyes,  and  a 
sense  of  comfort  and  protection  hovering  over  her,  such  as  she  had  never 
experienced  since  her  flight  from  Bathurst. 

After  that  she  grew  stronger  very,  very  gradually,  and  one  morning,  about 
a  week  after  that  eventful  day,  Guy  pronounced  Ulrica  able  to  bear  the 
journey. 

Her  old  maid,  Mary,  who  had  been  retained  in  Mrs.  Strong's  service, 
came  up  to  travel  with  her  young  mistress,  whom  she  was  honestly  glad  to 
see  again,  and  Graves  had  to  say  farewell  to  the  girl  whom  she  had  grown 
to  love  as  her  own  daughter,  and  to  whom  she  had  tried  with  all  her  might 


154  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

to  atone  for  the  wrong  she  had  done  her  in  her  blind  infatuation  for  Horace 
Mott. 

Ulrica  sighed  a  great  deep  sigh  of  relief  as  the  train  moved  slowly  away 
from  London.  Regret  was  mingled  with  it  indeed,  for  she  did  not  like 
parting  with  her  stern-faced,  tender  nurse,  but  she  consoled  herself  with 
picturing  their  speedy  meeting,  and  as  Guy  made  her  cozy  in  a  sheltered 
corner  of  the  luxurious  carriage,  she  felt  almost  as  if  she  were  gliding  away 
from  her  misery  as  from  a  bad  dream,  and  was  once  more  the  Ulrica  of  old, 
free  to  look  forward  to  happiness  and  peace. 

"  She  is  a  strange  woman,"  Guy  said  as  they  took  their  last  look  at  Graves. 

"  A  good  one,"  Ulrica  said  earnestly :  "she  has  proved  that  to  me,  in- 
deed. " 

"  Who  could  help  being  good  to  you  ?  "was  the  thought  in  Guy's  breast  ; 
out  loud  he  answered  :  "  Yes,  she  has  ;  her  face  is  certainly  not  an  index  to 
her  heart.  Now,  Ulrica,  you  must  keep  silence  for  a  time.  Close  your 
eyes ;  I  promise  to  rouse  you  when  we  come  near  the  sea. " 

Ulrica  smiled,  and  though  at  first  she  protested  sleep  was  the  last  thing 
in  her  mind,  before  very  long  the  swift  motion,  and  balmy  summer  air  acted 
on  her  strength,  the  heavily  fringed  eyelids  shut  out  the  sapphire  orbs,  and 
her  head  rested  back  against  the  cushions  in  slumber. 

Guy  gazed  his  fill  at  this  living  realization  of  his  heart's  queen. 

How  well  he  knew  the  sweet  face,  the  tender  lips,  that  even  in  her 
dreams  trembled  with  the  habit  that  grief  and  shame  had  brought !  The 
grace,  the  thoughtful  beauty  —  all  were  graven  on  his  memory. 

It  was  at  once  a  joy  and  an  intense  sadness  to  sit  watching  her. 

Guy  had  suffered  much  when  a  witness  to  Ulrica's  love  and  happiness  — 
indeed,  as  we  have  seen,  he  could  not  bear  it  at  first,  and  departed  to  gather 
strength  to  live  his  lonely  live  in  future;  but  that  pain  was  not  as  great  as 
the  misery  that  lived  in  his  breast,  as  he  realized  the  fact  that  Ulrica  was 
barred  from  the  joy  that  he  had  prayed  unselfishly  might  be  hers. 

While  Horace  Mott  lived  she  must  suffer,  and  Guy  knew  only  too  well 
that  the  cloud  which  rested  now  on  Ulrica's  husband  would  not  be  remem- 
bered long,  and  then  would  come  the  struggle  in  which  the  girl  would  be 
called  upon  to  bear  her  burden  once  more. 

He  sat  with  his  arms  folded  across  his  breast,  looking  thus  into  the  future, 
yearning  to  clasp  Ulrica  in  his  arms  and  bear  her  away  from  all  sorrow  and 
pain,  content  in  his  love  forever.  By-and-by  she  woke,  and  caught  the 
expression  on  his  face. 

"  Uncle  Guy,"  she  whispered,  softly. 

Guy  turned  instantly.  . 

"  Just  in  time  for  the  sea !  Look,  Ulrica,  do  not  the  white-crested  waves 
spell  health  and  vigor  in  their  merry  dances?  " 

Ulrica  bent  to  the  window;  the  breeze  blew  back  her  short,  wavy  locks. 
She  gave  a  glad  sigh  as  she  inhaled  the  scent  of  the  sea,  and  beheld  the 
wide  expanse  of  sunlit  waters. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Guy,  how  lovely.  I  feel  —  I  feel  as  I  did  that  first  day  at 
Bathurst,  when  I  realized  what  happiness  meant. " 

"  As  you  will  again,  darling,  please  God ! " 

He  busied  himself  in  gathering  together  the  things,  and  Ulrica  sat  gaz- 
ing at  the  sea,  her  heart  rising  as  they  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  it. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  buried  by  the  sea,  Uncle  Guy,  it  is  so  beautiful" 

"  Why  do  you  talk  like  this  ?  "  cried  the  man,  stung  to  exquisite  tor- 
ture at  the  meaning.  "  What  have  you  to  do  with  death,  Ulrica  ?  " 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  155 

She  saw  his  pained  look,  and  at  once  smiled. 

"  I  am  morbid,  I  suppose, "  was  her  reply,  though  her  wish  was  un- 
changed ;  "  you  must  scold  me,  Uncle  Guy.  Why,  are  we  there  already  ?  " 

The  train  coming  to  a  standstill  answered  her,  and  the  next  instant  Guy 
was  handing  her  tenderly  from  the  carriage,  murmuring  in  a  voice  choked 
with  emotion : 

"  Welcome  to  our  mother  and  home,  Ulrica ! " 
*  *  *  *  ****** 

Connie  lost  no  time  in  announcing  her  engagement. 

She  whispered  it  to  Lady  Dunworthy  as  soon  as  Sir  John  and  she  had 
arrived  at  the  house. 

That  walk  across  the  lawn  was  performed  by  the  young  man  as  in  a 
dream. 

They  met  several  people  coming  with  water  and  offers  of  assistance,  but 
Connie  stated,  with  a  pretty  air  of  recovery,  that  she  wanted  nothing,  and 
hung  on  to  Sir  John's  arm,  limping  a  little  as  she  walked. 

The  sense  of  conscious  proprietorship  in  her  every  gesture  somewhat  pre- 
pared these  for  what  was  coming,  but  to  the  majority  the  news,  which 
Lady  Dunworthy  announced  most  pompously,  occasioned  much  surprise 
and  many  whispered  comments. 

"  He  is  soon  off  with  his  old  love  and  on  with  the  new,"  observed  one 
lady. 

"  Ah,  well,  he  was  treated  very  badly,"  was  the  remark  of  another. 

"  Her  fishing  has  ended  well,"  a  spiteful  mother  remarked,  who  had 
never  despaired  of  securing  Sir  John  sooner  or  later  for  her  own  pretty 
daughter:  "  she  has  positively  flung  herself  at  his  head. " 

"  How  pleased  Lady  Dunworthy  looks ! "  a  more  sympathetic  neighbor 
added. 

"  Yes;  and  how  wretched  Sir  John ! " 

John  Dunworthy  a'  that  moment  hated  Connie,  hated  his  mother,  and 
himself  above  all  others;  he  could  have  cursed  himself  for  having  been 
caught  in  so  transparent  a  trap,  for  now  against  his  better  nature  he  began 
to  see  how  artfully  Connie  had  brought  about  the  result  which  was  driving 
him  to  despair. 

What  had  he  done? 

Pledged  himself  to  another,  while  his  whole  being  lived  only  for  Ulrica. 
The  thought  was  madness.  Though  they  were  parted  by  a  barrier  almost 
as  stern  and  relentless  as  death  itself,  since  he  had  learned  the  bitter  truth 
from  Guy,  and  realized  Ulrica's  sacrifice  in  its  intensity,  his  love  had  risen 
fourfold;  he  treasured  it  for  his  angel,  his  sweet,  fair,  first  love,  never  to 
grow  less,  nor  to  be  erased. 

And  now  —  now  he  was  to  marry  Connie,  a  girl  who  in  that  brief  miser- 
able moment  he  seemed  to  know  and  see  all  at  once  in  her  true  colors. 

How  could  he  have  been  so  weak ! 

He  started  to  his  feet,  and  pushed  open  his  window.  A  broad  stream  of 
moonlight  stole  in. 

It  was  on  just  such  a  night  as  this  that  Ulrica  had  plighted  her  tenderly 
whispered  vows.  How  happy  he  had  been  then,  and  how  wretched  he 
was  now. 

"  How  could  I  let  you  leave  me  that  day,"  was  the  sudden  sigh  of  his 
heart  ;  "  why  did  I  not  go  to  Bathurst,  when  I  started  that  morning.  If  I 
had  gone  —  if  only  I  had  seen  her  once  again,  if " 


156  HER  FATAL  SIN* 

Ah,  Sir  John  Dunworthy,  how  many  "  ifs  "  have  gone  to  swell  the  flood 
of  human  misery  that  never  ceases? 

No  ;  he  could  not  do  this  thing,  he  could  not  be  unfaithful  to  his  love ; 
he  would  speak  plainly  to  Connie  —  tell  her  he  could  never  make  her  happy, 
and  leave  it  to  her  to  release  him. 

Armed  with  this  resolve  he  went  back  to  the  others. 

The  fete  had  ended  in  a  sort  of  impromptu  dance,  but  the  summer  night 
made  much  exertion  impossible,  and  though  the  band  discoursed  sweet 
music  from  a  corner  of  the  lawn,  the  assemblage  was  broken  up  into  small 
groups,  who  chatted  and  strolled  together  in  the  moonlight. 

Connie  was  quick  to  miss  Sir  John. 

She  was  attired  in  another  white  gown  for  the  evening,  and  moved  about 
a  really  pretty  sight  in  a  trailing  robe  of  soft  satin,  pearls  gleaming  round 
her  throat,  and  diamonds  glistening  like  dewdrops  from  her  hair  and  laces. 

Her  heart  was  elated,  yet  she  was  bitterly  mortified.  Her  betrothed, 
instead  of  adding  to  her  triumph,  only  threw  a  shadow  on  it. 

She  felt  that  her  enemies  —  and  there  were  many  present  —  were  whis- 
pering already  their  astonishment  at  Sir  John's  strange  absence,  and  she 
was  growing  really  angry  when  at  last  the  host  made  his  appearance.  She 
went  to  meet  him  slowly,  putting  on  her  sweetest  smile. 

"  Where  hast  thou  been,  oh,  most  errant  knight  ?  "  she  inquired,  as  she 
slipped  one  gloved  hand  through  his  arm. 

Sir  John  gazed  at  her,  and  his  heart  suddenly  loathed  him.  He  could 
never  tell  why,  but  a  revulsion  of  feeling  came  over  him,  recalling  all  the 
contemptuous  indifference  he  once  had  towards  the  worldly  Miss  Wren, 
only  much  deeper.  It  strengthened  his  resolution. 

"  Can  you  come  away  from  these  people  ?    I  want  to  speak  to  you. " 

Connie  winced. 

She  knew  in  an  instant,  from  his  cold,  forced  tone,  what  he  had  to  say, 
but  she  did  not  mean  to  listen.  Her  thin  lips  were  compressed,  and  in  her 
downcast  eyes  there  lurked  a  fire  of  wrath  and  vexation,  but  she  acted  her 
part  well. 

"  I  can  guess  what  it  is,"  she  said,  with  a  soft  little  laugh  —  "  you  want 
me  to  write  to  mamma?  Well,  dear,  I  have  done  so  —  at  least,  I  have 
sent  her  a  wire,  as  I  was  afraid  some  one  might  tell  her  before  she  receives 
my  letter,  and  that  would  wound  her  so.  Now,  am  not  I  a  true  proph- 
etess ?  That  was  it,  was  it  not  ?" 

Sir  John  stood  silent ;  he  saw  that  it  was  too  late  ;  to  draw  back  now 
would  mean  exposure,  scandal,  and  perhaps  disgrace. 

At  this  proof  of  Connie's  worldly  determination,  his  contempt  grew 
greater.  But  he  was  too  much  the  soul  of  honor  to  let  her  see  her  pitiful 
audacity  was  known  to  him  yet. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly;  "  that  was  it." 

And  then  he  moved  forward  to  speak  to  some  old  ladies  whom  he  liked, 
and  Connie  was  left  to  smile  and  gossip  in  the  moonlight,  while  her  heart 
raged  and  surged. 

"  It  is  she  he  is  thinking  of.  Oh,  Ulrica  Mott,  if  ever  the  chance  comes  I 
will  make  you  suffer  double  for  this! " 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  157 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

"  TTOU  will  not  walk  too  far,  dear?  " 

1  The  question  was  put  by  Mrs.  Strong;  her  tones  were  anxious  and 
affectionate. 

Ul»ica  smiled. 

"  I  will  not  go  at  all,  unless  you  wish  it,"  she  said  at  once. 

"  I  do  wish  it;  but  I  don't  want  you  to  tire  yourself.  Guy  would  be  so 
angry.  I  only  wish  I  could  accompany  you. " 

"  Uncle  Guy  is  a  tyrant,  and  so  I  shall  tell  him  when  he  returns  to-night. 
Now,  I  pledge  myself  to  come  back  very  quickly.  I  may  rest  for  a  few 
minutes.  But " 

"  But  I  will  trust  you.     Au  revoir,  my  dear  child. " 

A  week  had  worked  wonders  for  Ulrica;  she  seemed  to  thrive  suddenly, 
a»d  to  grow  out  of  all  her  weakness.  Her  face,  even  lovelier  now  than 
before,  looked  each  morning  more  animated,  her  youthful  vigor  was  ap- 
parently all  returned. 

Mrs.  Strong  was  more  than  delighted,  and  was  quite  angry  because  Guy 
would  not  chime  in  with  her.  But  this  he  would  not  do. 

"  She  is  far  from  strong  yet,  mother,"  he  said,  as  she  spoke  of  Ulrica's 
wonderful  improvement.  "  We  must  take  great  care  of  her. " 

About  the  beginning  of  the  second  week,  business  took  Guy  to  London 
for  one  day  only,  and  it  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  next,  on  which  he  was 
to  return,  that  Ulrica  was  about  to  sally  forth  for  her  first  walk  alone  since 
her  illness. 

She  let  Mrs.  Strong  wrap  the  small  silk  shawl  across  her  chest,  though 
she  smillingly  averred  she  did  not  need  it,  and  was  just  on  the  point  of 
starting  when  Mrs.  Strong's  maid  entered  the  room. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  Joe  Letts  wants  to  know  if  you  will  see  him. " 

"  Joe  Letts !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Strong. 

Ulrica  broke  in  quickly  : 

"  He  brought  us  some  shrimps  the  other  day,  mother  ;  you  remember. " 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure.  Well,  Bruce,  ask  him  to  come  to  the  window,  and  I 
will  speak  to  him.  Some  trouble,  I  suppose. " 

Joe  Letts  lurched  onto  the  narrow  verandah  that  ran  around  the  cottage- 
like  residence. 

"Begparding,  ma'am,"  he  observed,  touching  his  cap,  a  nondescript- 
looking  article  in  mackintosh,  "but  your  name  is  Mrs.  Strong,  ain't  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Strong  smilingly  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  Then  I've  got  a  message  for  yer. " 

And  Joe  fumbled  in  the  many  pockets  of  his  blue  serge  trousers  and 
blouse,  and  produced  a  letter. 

Mrs.  Strong  took  it,  a  little  surprised. 

"  Will  you  read  it,  my  dear  ?  "  she  asked,  handing  it  to  Ulrica.  "  My 
eyes  are  not  so  young  as  yours." 

Ulrica  looked  at  the  envelope  ;  the  writing  seemed  familiar. 

She  tore  it  open  ;  the  next  instant  she  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"  It  is  from  Father  Lawrence !  He  wants  to  know  where  I  am  ;  he  is 
ill,"  she  managed  to  say. 

This  sudden  recall  to  her  past  troubles  unnerved  her. 


158  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

Mrs.  Strong  searched  for  her  spectacles  and  read  the  note  through 
twice. 

It  was  very  curt,  and  dated  from  a  village  about  a  mile  inland  from  Sea- 
mouth. 

"  We  must  wait  till  Guy  comes,"  she  said  quietly. 

Ulrica  stood  with  one  hand  leaning  on  the  table.  She  looked  and  felt 
distressed. 

She  could  never  forget  the  shock  that  Father  Lawrence  had  caused  her 
as  he  suddenly  appeared  before  her  that  day  at  the  old  well. 

The  fisherman  broke  in  : 

"  Begging  your  leddyship's  pardings,  his  riverance  beseeched  me  to  ask 
the  Dr.  Strong  to  see  him  at  onct.  He  wrote  that  litter  last  night,  when 
he  found  out  by  accident  as  how  yer  leddyship  was  here.  He's  real  ill, 
and  this  morning  he  says  to  me,  '  Joe,'  says  he,  '  ask  him  to  come  to  me 
directly  ;  there's  something,'  he  says,  '  something  I  must  tell  him  afore  I 
dies,:  he  says  ;  and  so  I  come,  my  leddy,  and  I'll  take  the  message." 

"  What  does  he  say  about  me  ?  "  asked  Ulrica  hurriedly  of  Mrs.  Strong. 

Guy's  mother  looked  at  the  note  again. 

"  '  Give  me  Miss  Messenger's  address  —  let  me  know  where  to  find  her. 
I  have  searched  for  her  everywhere.  I  must  see  her  or  send  her  a  message. 
I  am  very  ill ;  and  my  need  is  urgent. ' " 

Ulrica  remained  silent  for  a  while. 

"  Where  is  —  is  the  sick  man  ?  "  she  asked  Joe  again. 

"  It's  just  a  matter  of  a  mile  from  here,  your  leddyship  —  at  Garth,  the 
next  village.  His  riverance  come  down  there  a  few  months  back  on  a  visit 
to  Father  Peter ;  and  then  when  his  riverance  went  away,  Father  Lawrence 
stopped  behind:  He's  a  good  man,  is  his  riverance." 

Ulrica  nodded  her  head  absently. 

"  Mother,"  she  said  quietly,  "  I  will  go  to  him." 

"My  darling!"  cried  Mrs.  Strong,  agitatedly;  "no,  no;  you  must  not 
do  such  a  thing.  Wait  till  Guy  comes  home —  he  will  go. " 

"He  is  ill  —  perhaps  dying.  I  shall  come  to  no  harm.  I  feel  I  ought 
to  go." 

Ulrica's  troubled  face  bore  witness  to  this. 

"  But  I  do  not  think  I  ought  to  allow  it  ;  besides,  think  of  the  misery 
he  has  caused  you,  Ulrica  dear. " 

"  Death  levels  all  that,"  the  girl  answered. 

Mrs.  Strong  was  silent ;  she  put  out  her  hand  and  drew  Ulrica  down  to 
her,  kissing  the  sweet  lips. 

"  Go  then,  my  child !  would  that  I  could  come  with  you  ;  but  don't  go 
alone  —  take  Mary.  And  Ulrica,  promise  me,  do  not  remain  long; 
remember  your  strength,  and  how  precious  you  are  to  us ! " 

"  Could  I  ever  forget  that  ?  "  whispered  the  girl.  "  My  more  than 
mother,  I  know  I  have  suffered  at  this  man's  hands,  but  I  cannot  refuse  to 
see  him,  now  he  is  dying ! " 

Mrs.  Strong  gave  Mary  strict  injunctions  to  look  well  after  her  mistress, 
and  exacted  a  promise  from  Ulrica  that  she  would  take  one  of  the  village 
cabs  to  Garth. 

From  Joe,  Ulrica  learnt  all  there  was  to  know  about  Father  Lawrence 
—  how  he  had  come  a  few  months  back  on  an  apparently  flying  visit  to 
the  priest  of  the  neighborhood  ;  how  Father  Peter  had  been  called  away 
on  illness  in  his  family,  and  how  Father  Lawrence  had  taken  the  care  of 
his  parish  till  he  was  able  to  return. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  159 

"  And  now  your  leddyship  sees  as  how  his  riverance  himse  <s  took  ill. 
He  has  been  main  bad  for  weeks  past,  but  he  were  out  in  all  weathers 
doing  some  good  or  other. 

Ulrica's  heart  had  softened  towards  the  priest  long  ago,  and  this  tribute 
to  him  made  her  think  of  him  with  sad  interest.  She  felt  that  she  should 
hear  some  truth  from  his  lips,  though  she  cared  little  what  it  might  be. 
Hope  and  joy  were  killed  for  her  in  life  now.  All  she  prayed  for  was 
peace. 

She  sat  quietly  in  the  shambling  carriage,  and  sighed  now  and  again  as 
the  soft  sea-breeze  kissed  her  pale  cheeks. 

A  sort  of  lassitude  crept  over  her  when  she  would  permit  it,  which  she 
never  would  in  the  presence  of  Guy  or  his  mother,  and  it  stole  over  her 
now. 

She  alighted  from  the  fly  wearily,  and  almost  with  difficulty. 

This  meeting  with  Father  Lawrence  recalled  so  much,  that  it  took  all 
her  strength  to  gather  herself  together  to  face  it. 

Mary  noticed  her  agitation,  and,  mindful  of  Mrs.  Strong's  injunctions, 
said: 

"  Shall  I  take  you  home  again,  Miss  Ulrica?  "  calling  her  by  the  old 
name,  as  she  always  did. 

But  Ulrica  shook  her  head,  and  walked  quietly  up  the  path  to  the  small 
house. 

A  nursing  sister  opened  the  door,  and  looked  grave  as  Ulrica  inquired  for 
Father  Lawrence, 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  let  you  see  him.     He  is  very  ill  this  morning." 

Ulrica  spoke  of  the  sick  man's  note  to  Dr.  Strong,  and  his  wish  to  know 
of  her  whereabouts.  <, 

The  sister  looked  thoughtful. 

"  He  has  certainly  been  most  restless.  Perhaps  this  is  the  cause.  Will 
you  come  in  and  wait  here  while  I  go  and  break  the  fact  of  your  presence 
to  him?  I  only  came  late  last  night.  I  did  not  know  he  had  written  a 
letter." 

Ulrica  sent  Mary  back  to  the  fly,  and  sank  onto  the  hard  chair  placed 
in  the  hall. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him?  "  she  asked  in  low  tones. 

"  He  is  suffering  from  an  internal  disease,  which  has  afflicted  him,  it 
seems,  for  years. " 

The  sister  passed  up  the  narrow,  uncarpeted  staircase,  while  Ulrica 
tried  to  picture  the  face  of  the  priest  as  she  had  known  it,  and  reconcile  it 
with  suffering.  It  had  always  seemed  to  her  the  face  of  a  man  who  pos- 
sessed everything  in  life  conducive  to  enjoyment.  How  she  had  wronged 
him! 

The  soft  footsteps  of  the  nurse  sounded  on  her  ears. 

"  You  may  come  up  ;  he  is  most  anxious  to  see  you. " 

Ulrica  rose  and  mounted  slowly. 

"  Do  not  stay  longer  than  you  can  help,"  whispered  the  sister. 

Ulrica  nodded  and  went  slowly  into  the  poor,  almost  wretched-looking 
bedroom. 

She  started  as  her  eyes  rested  on  the  gaunt  white  face,  and  on  the  thin 
hand  stretched  tremblingly  towards  her.  A  stream  of  sunshine  falling 
Across  the  boarded  floor  seemed  intrusive  and  6ut  of  place. 

It  was  the  room  of  an  ascetic  —  no  comforts,  no  beautiful  objects  to 
gratify  the  sight,  nothing  but  bare  necessities. 


l6o  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"  You  —  you  have  come.     This  is  good. " 

The  voice  was  only  a  whisper  of  the  rich  unctuous  tones  she  remembered. 

She  drew  a  chair  to  his  bedside,  and  spoke  from  a  heart  full  of  sympathy 

"  I  am  glad  I  was  near  to  come. " 

The  sick  man  made  no  answer  at  first ;  he  only  moaned  with  closed  eyes, 
and  the  nurse  bathed  his  brow  with  some  vinegar-and-water. 

Ulrica  held  the  hand  he  had  extended  still  between  her  own. 

"  You  wished  to  speak  to  me, "  she  said  gently. 

Father  Lawrence  struggled  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  answered  in  a 
husky  whisper  : 

"  Yes  ;  so  that  I  might  make  reparation  before  I  —  I  die. " 

Ulrica  took  the  fan  from  the  nurse  and  waved  it  to  and  fro. 

"  I  wronged  you,"  the  sick  man  went  on  with  difficulty.  "  Listen.  The 
will  —  read  —  that  day  — was  a  false  one.  Your  — your  father  left  every- 
thing to  you. " 

Ulrica  fanned  on  slowly. 

"  Do  not  distress  yourself,"  she  said  quietly  and  sadly  ;  "  I  never  cared 
for  the  money." 

"But  I  did."  The  words  were  uttered  in  tones  of  almost  fierce  self- 
reproach.  "  Ah,  you  did  not  know  —  no  one  knew  but  myself — how  I 
have  wrestled  with  this  greed  of  gain,  this  love  of  gold  —  I,  a  priest  of 
God  and  Our  Lady.  The  temptations  I  had  endured  and  conquered  —  yes, 
conquered  all —  till  I  met  your  father.  Don't  despise  me  more " 

His  voice  failed. 

"  I  do  not  despise  you,  believe  me,"  the  girl  said  eloquently  and  earnestly. 

"  I  do  believe  you,"  he  answered,  fixing  his  weary,  pain-distraught 
eyes  on  her  for  an  instant.  "  You  are  good  and  pure  —  pure  as  an  angel. 
I  must  go  on  quickly,  or  my  strength  will  fail.  Your  —  your  father,  it 
seemed  to  me,  had  some  sin  on  his  soul.  I  set  myself  to  find  it  out.  For 
a  month  or  so  before  his  death  he  grew  clearer  and  clearer  in  his  brain.  I 
—  I  succeeded" — he  drew  a  heavy  breath — "I  succeeded  in  converting 
him,  hoping  then  to  get  him  into  my  power.  Then  came  the  day  when  he 
was  seized.  While  Dr.  Strong  went  to  find  you,  he  told  me  as  well  as  he 
could  gasp  the  reason  of  your  mother's  sudden  death  ;  how  they  had  quar- 
reled, how  he  had  taunted  her  and  angered  her,  little  knowing  she  was 
suffering  from  a  severe  complaint  of  the  heart,  which  any  great  excitement 
would  culminate  in  death.  My  voice  fails.  You  will  find " 

The  sister  bent  over  him  and  moistened  his  lips. 

"  Shall  I  go?  "  asked  Ulrica,  lifting  her  agitated  face  to  the  other. 

"  It  is  a  momentary  faintness,  and  will  pass.  I  think  he  wants  to  say 
you  will  find  a  packet  among  his  papers  on  that  table.  He  spoke  to  me 
of  it  just  now  —  yes,  that  is  it." 

The  two  women  sat  on  either  side  of  the  bed  till  he  rallied  again. 

After  a  moment's  silence  he  turned  his  eyes  and  looked  at  Ulrica. 

"  You  are  changed  —  you  have  been  ill, "  he  murmured. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  am  better  now." 

"  And  you  will  have  happiness.  I  have  had  no  peace  of  mind  since  that 
day  I  saw  you  in  Dunworthy  Wood.  I  waited  in  the  village  till  the  next 
morning,  and  fought  with  myself  again  and  again  to  go  to  you  —  give  you 
your  rights,  and  tell  you  all  J  knew,  but  the  fiend  within  me  was  too  strong. 
I  —  I  could  not  part  with  the  money  then. " 

"  Do  not  talk  of  that,"  whispered  Ulrica.  "  It  has  gone  to  enrich  you 
Church,  and " 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  l6l 

Father  Lawrence  shook  his  head  faintly. 

"  Not  one  penny  has  reached  the  Church,"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "  I 
tried,  but  could  not  part  with  a  farthing  till  —  till  I  saw  you  again.  After 
that  my  soul  seemed  to  loathe  the  money.  Your  father's  last  wish  to  me 
to  guard  you  and  keep  all  for  you,  grew  into  a  Nemesis.  This  illness, 
which  has  been  on  me  for  years,  became  worse  and  worse  ;  then  —  then  I 
was  haunted  with  but  one  idea  —  one  thought  —  to  find  you  to  tell  you 
all.  I  have  written  letter  after  letter  to  Dr.  Strong,  which,  I  make  no 
doubt,  he  never  opened  ;  and  now  — now,  when  I  am  at  my  last,  God  is 
merciful !  You  will  forgive?  " 

"  What  have  I  to  forgive  ?  "  Ulrica  whispered,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"  We  are  all  mortal.  Who  am  I  to  judge  ?  You  —  you  alone  can  know 
your  temptations  and  struggles." 

The  priest  murmured  something  with  his  lips. 

The  nurse  bent  to  listen. 

"  The  money  is  still  in  the  same  securities,"  she  repeated  word  by  word. 
"I  have  made  over  everything  to  you.  Promise  to  make  your  claim 
good. " 

"  I  promise,"  Ulrica  said  at  once. 

The  money  itself  brought  nothing  but  a  shudder  of  dislike,  but  she  could 
not  refuse  his  plea. 

She  stooped  and  tenderly  bathed  his  face,  and  as  she  did  so  his  eyes 
opened,  and  he  caught  the  gleam  of  her  wedding-ring. 

"  You  are  married  ?  " 

Ulrica's  lips  compressed. 

"  I  am  Horace  Mott's  wife,"  she  answered. 

"  And  it  was  I  who  brought  you  to  this." 

"  Not  so ! "  she  broke  in  quickly.  "  What  you  told  me  was  truth,  what 
he  a  lie.  It  is  he,  and  he  alone,  to  whom  I  owe  all  my  misery. " 

The  priest  motioned  to  the  nurse  to  raise  him  a  little. 

He  put  out  one  weak  hand  and  let  it  rest  on  Ulrica's  bent  head. 

"Child,"  he  said,  huskily  and  slowly,  "be  comforted.  I  give  you  my 
blessing  —  the  blessing  of  a  man  who  has  sinned  and  atoned. " 

Ulrica  slipped  onto  her  knees  on  the  floor. 

Atoned,  indeed!  The  very  squalor  and  poverty  that  surrounded  his 
death-bed  witnessed  that. 

"  You  may  have  unhappiness  yet  hi  store  for  you,  but  be  true,  good, 
faithful,  as  you  have  always  been.  '  Sorrow  lasteth  not  forever ;  joy  — joy 
cometh  in '  " 

His  head  dropped,  and  his  heavy  frame  slipped  from  the  nurse's  hold. 

Ulrica  rose  with  dismay  on  her  face,  and  the  sound  of  footsteps  coming 
np  the  stairs,  she  turned  to  be  wrapped  in  Guy's  arms. 

He  had  arrived  immediately  after  she  had  started,  and,  without  another 
thought,  followed  quickly.  i 

"  Ulrica,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "  this  is  no  place  for  you.  Go — go  down 
to  the  sunshine  and  air. " 

Ulrica  had  grown  fainter  and  fainter  during  the  last  five  minutes. 

"  Look  to  him,"  she  murmured,  as  she  felt  for  the  doorway ;  "  he  is— 
dying ! " 

Guy  watched  her  make  her  way  slowly  down  the  stairs,  then  turned  and 
bent  over  the  silent  form. 

"Not  dying,  but  dead!"  he  said  quietly  to  the  sister,  who  dropped  on 
her  knees  and  began  to  pray. 


1 62  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

Guy  went  from  the  room  ;  he  called  the  woman  who  had  acted  as  servant 
to  the  dead  man,  and  having  briefly  told  her  that  he  would  return  that 
evening  and  give  all  the  help  in  his  power,  he  went  to  the  carriage  and 
Ulrica. 

He  spoke  no  word  to  her  as  they  drove  home,  but  he  put  her  back  in  a 
corner,  and  when  she  shivered  he  drew  the  silken  shawl  closer  round  her,  as 
though  the  day  were  chilly  instead  of  glorious  summer  warmth. 

Mrs.  Strong  read  from  the  girl's  face  that  her  nerves  had  been  tried,  and 
recommended  sleep  and  rest,  but  Ulrica  pleaded  to  sit  by  her  side  and  lean 
her  head  on  the  motherly  knee,  saying  truthfully  she  was  comforted  by  it. 

Guy  went  over  to  Garth  in  the  evening  as  promised,  and  yet  another 
surprise  came  for  Ulrica,  for  about  eight  or  nine  o'clock,  while  she  was 
trying  to  rid  her  memory*f  the  sad  scene,  to  forget  the  dying  man,  a  worn 
figure  came  up  the  path,  and  Graves  was  announced. 

"You  have  kept  your  promise  —  you  have  come  to  stay,"  cried  Ulrica, 
genuinely  pleased  to  see  her  true  friend  and  nurse. 

Mrs.  Strong  added  a  few  kind  words  —  she  had  heard  from  Guy  how 
tenderly  this  woman  had  cared  for  Ulrica. 

"No;  I  am  come  to  sajj  'good-bye,'"  Graves  answered  in  a  dull  set 
way.  "  I  am  going  to  leave  England  for  a  while. " 

"  Leave  England,  Graves,  and  me !  " 

The  indifference  in  the  worn  face  broke  for  an  instant  into  pain. 

"  Only  for  a  time,  my  dear  one,"  Graves  whispered;  "  you  are  safe  now 
with  your  friends,  anw  I  can  do  my  work  now  that  my  mind  is  at  rest  about 
you." 

"  You  dear,  kind  creature !  " 

Ulrica  nestled  to  Grave's  shoulder. 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  think  you  are  going  away !  But  you  will  come  back 
— yes,  promise." 

"  I  promise,  darling,,  if  I  live. v 

Then  without  another  word,  and  despite  all  Ulrica's  protests,  Graves 
went  down  the  path,  and  vanished  in  the  summer  darkness. 

"  I  will  come  back  to  you,"  she  muttered  as  she  went  on  her  way,  "  with 
freedom  and  happiness  in  my  hand  for  you,  child,  and  satisfaction,  fulfilled 
revenge  in  my  heart  for  myself. " 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

SUY,  true  to  his  word,  fulfilled  nil  his  self-elected  duties,  and  followed 
the  dead  priest  to  his  last  resting-place. 

He  brought  away  the  letter  which  Father  Lawrence  had  tried  to  speak 
of  to  Ulrica,  and  when  she  had  recovered  a  little  from  the  shock  her  nerv- 
ous system  had  received,  he  gave  it  to  her. 

Ulrica  sat  by  the  rolling  waves  in  a  quiet  spot  beneath  the  shade  of  an 
old  boat,  when  she  opened  this  packet. 

The  letter  was  not  long;  it  told  her  briefly  all  about  her  childhood,  the 
veil  that  had  hung  over  the  name  of  her  mother  was  withdrawn,  and  she 
knew  the  whole  story  as  the  priest  had  learned  it  from  her  father. 

She  touched  the  old  love-letters  that  years  ago  had  brought  happiness  to 
that  dead  mother's  heart,  and  as  she  read  the  terse  story  of  deceit  and 
misery  that  followed — for  George  Messenger  had  not  spared  himself  in  his 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  163 

recital  —  tears  welled  to  her  eyes  in  sympathy  for  the  sorrow  that  this  other 
young  girl  had  been  called  upon  to  bear  so  long  ago. 

"A  strange  fate,"  she  mused,  as  she  put  all  the  papers  together  again, 
and,  leaning  back,  let  her  eyes  roam  over  the  dancing  waves  ;  "  mother 
and  daughter  both  alike.  Well,  as  we  have  suffered  here,  perhaps  beyond 
it  will  be  different.  If  I  have  not  happiness,  at  least  I  have  peace  —  for  a 
time.  God  is  merciful  to  me ! " 

She  looked  up  as  she  thought  this,  and  smiled  a  welcome  to  Guy,  who 
now  approached. 

"  It  is  lovely  here,"  she  said,  dismissing  all  sad  subjects  and  trying  to  be 
as  light-hearted  as  she  possibly  could  in  his  presence,  feeling  instinctively 
that  he  suffered  when  she  was  wretched. 

"  It  is  quite  cozy,"  Guy  agreed.  "  Have  you  got  room  for  one  other  in 
your  corner,  Ulrica  ?  " 

She  moved  up  at  once,  and  pointed  to  a  portion  of  the  woodwork  be- 
side her. 

"  Quantities  of  room.     Is  mother  coming  ?  " 

"  No  ;  some  one  else." 

Guy  looked  up  as  he  spoke,  and  then  Ulrica  felt  two  small  hands  creep 
ove*  her  eyes,  blotting  out  the  sunshine. 

Her  heart  thrilled. 

"  Chattie  —  it  is  Chattie.     Oh,  darling!  " 

Guy  moved  away  as  Chattie  sat  down  on  the  old  boat  and  clasped  Ulrica 
in  her  arms. 

"  My  dear  —  my  sweet !  "  she  whispered,  "  I  have  been  dying  to  see 
you,  and  Uncle  Guy  would  not  let  me  come  till  you  were  stronger. " 

"  I  am  ever  so  much  better,  and  you  will  make  me  quite  well.  Oh, 
Chattie,  dear  Chattie,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  your  face  once  more  !" 

"  And  yet  you  would  not  let  me  come  when  I  sent  you  message  after 
message  by  Lord  Eric. " 

Chattie  nestled  close  to  Ulrica's  pale,  lovely  face. 

"  That  was  different,  dear  ;  you  could  not  have  come  to  me  there." 

"  Well,  never  mind ;  we  are  together  now,  and  that  is  everything.  Let 
me  hold  your  hand,  Ulrica,  and  let  me  look  at  you." 

Ulrica  smiled,  and  turned  to  the  eager,  piquante  face  beside  her. 

"  Why,  Chattie,  you  are  quite  grown-up  now.  How  pretty  your  hair 
looks!" 

Chattie*  turned  her  head  away  suddenly  ;  she  did  not  want  Ulrica  to  see 
her  lips  trembling,  or  the  tears  springing  to  her  eyes,  brought  there  by  this 
vision  of  sweet,  frail  beauty,  which  was  so  pale  a  shadow  of  the  Ulrica  of 
only  a  year  ago. 

"  You  must  not  make  me  vain,"  she  managed  to  say. 

"  I  am  not  afraid.  But  come,  Chattie,  tell  me  your  secret.  I  know  it 
already,  but  I  want  to  hear  it  from  your  own  lips." 

Chattie  laughed  shyly. 

"  About  Basil,  you  mean  ?  Well,  do  you  know,  Ulrica,  I  was  never 
more  astonished  in  my  life  —  never ! " 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Ulrica,  clasping  the  hand  she  held,  and  drinking  in  the 
delight  of  Chattie's  presence  with  avidity. 

"  Because  —  well,  one  reason  was  that  Basil  always  said  he  never  could 
stand  red  hair,  and  as  mine  is  nearly  akin  to  carrots,  you  see  — — " 

Ulrica  laughed. 

"  I  call  your  hair  a  beautiful  auburn,"  she  observed. 


IO4  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

"  Ah,  yes;  so  does  Basil — now." 

There  was  a  delicious  naivet6  in  the  last  remark. 

*  And  how  is  your  mother?  "  Ulrica  asked,  after  she  had  listened  to  a  long 
account  of  Basil,  his  doings,  and  his  expected  speedy  arrival. 

"  Oh,  mother  is  just  the  same  as  usual." 

*  And  your  sister  ?  " 

Chattie's  lips  curled  with  a  slight  sneer,  yet  she  looked  pained. 

"  Connie  never  changes  much,"  she  replied. 

She  would  not  say  that  her  sister  was  at  Dunworthy  ;  she  dreaded  to 
bring  a  shade  of  sadness  on  Ulrica's  face,  which,  since  their  meeting,  had 
grown  several  degress  brighter. 

Chattie  knew  what  Connie's  aim  was,  but  she  was  not  aware  yet  that 
that  aim  was  already  a  fait  accompli ;  for,  although  Miss  Wren  had 
informed  her  betrothed  she  had  telegraphed  to  her  mother  the  important 
news,  she  had  not  thought  to  acquaint  her  sister  with  it  also;  and,  as 
Chattie  had  been  staying  with  some  relations,  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
whole  affair. 

"  Are  you  still  angry  with  her?  "  Ulrica  asked,  putting  a  little  reproach 
into  her  voice. 

"  I  suppose  I  am,"  Chattie  answered.  "  It  is  very  wrong,  Ulrica,  and  I 
have  tried  over  and  over  again  to  be  friends  with  Connie,  but  never  can; 
we  have  not  a  single  thought  in  common. " 

Ulrica  wisely  changed  the  conversation. 

"  Where  did  you  suddenly  spring  from?  And  are  you  going  to  stay 
long?" 

"  Till  you  all  get  jolly  sick  of  me,"  and  Chattie  laughed  in  her  old  merry 
fashion.  "  I  have  deposited  mother  with  the  Drakes,  you  know,  our 
celebrated  relations  that  Connie  is  always  talking  about,  and  am  going  to 
be  Mammy  Strong's  guest  for  just  as  long  as  she  will  keep  me." 

Ulrica  gave  a  little  sigh  of  content. 

"  How  nice  it  sounds,  Chattie ! " 

"  Yes,  doesn't  it?  And  in  a  week's  time  Basil  will  be  here,  too;  and  then 
we  shall  have  some  larks,  or  my  name  is  not  Charlotte  Wrenl" 

Guy  came  round  the  corner  of  the  boat  at  this  juncture. 

"  All  confidences  over?  Well,  then  what  do  you  say  if  we  adjourn  to 
luncheon?  " 

"  I  say  yes,  with  all  my  heart,  Uncle  Guy.  I  can  smell  the  cutlets  from 
here. " 

"  Not  bad  for  a  tip-tilted  nose,  Chattie." 

Guy  extended  his  hand  to  Ulrica  as  he  spoke,  and  she  rose  to  her  feet 
slowly. 

"  Why,  Ulrica,  you  are  quite  stiff !    Have  you  been  sitting  here  long?  " 

Chattie  put  the  question  lightly,  but  in  her  inmost  heart  the  sight  of  the 
girl's  weakness  struck  her  with  as  much  pain  as  a  sword-thrust. 

Ulrica  laughed. 

"  I  am  getting  old,  Chattie  —  that  is  it,"  she  said. 

Chattie's  answer  was  some  joke,  and  she  gossiped  on  lightly  till  the 
house  was  reached,  not  letting  Ulrica  see  that  she  noticed  anything  unusual 
in  the  slow  steps,  and  in  the  many  times  that  Guy  came  to  a  standstill, 
apparently  to  point  out  some  bit  of  picturesque  scenery,  in  reality  to  give 
Ulrica  a  few  seconds  of  rest  before  proceeding. 

As  they  entered  the  house,  and  Ulrica  had  passed  into  the  room,  Chattie 
pulled  Guy  back. 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  165 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Guy,  how  changed!    How  ill  she  is!    What  is  it?  " 

Guy  patted  the  soft  cheek  and  looked  tenderly  at  Chattie's  full  eyes  and 
quivering  lips. 

"You  are  as  soft-hearted  as  ever,  Chattie  ;  but  don't  be  alarmed.  I 
am  afraid  you  do  see  a  change  in  Ulrica,  but  that  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at.  Remember  all  she  has  suffered,  and  also  think  of  this  illness  —  it  would 
pull  down  many  stronger  than  she ! " 

"  Of  course,  I  am  a  little  fool,"  Chattie  observed,  "but  I  confess  it  did 
shock  me  ;  but  she  will  get  stronger  now  she  is  with  you,  Uncle  Guy  ?  " 

Guy  checked  a  sigh. 

"  She  is  better  each  day,"  he  answered  almost  curtly,  and  then  passed 
on  into  the  dining-room. 

The  advent  of  Chattie  brought  with  it  also  a  different  atmosphere. 

The  three  who  had  sat  after  dinner  in  silence,  wrapped  in  their  thoughts, 
were  now  routed  out  of  them  altogether,  and  found  themselves  laughing 
and  chatting  in  the  merriest  fashion. 

The  color  glowed  on  Ulrica's  cheeks,  and  her  depression  seemed  to 
vanish  at  Chattie's  approach. 

Guy  welcomed  all  signs  of  returning  youth  in  the  girl  who  had  been 
plunged  so  suddenly,  and  so  early  into  the  sorrows  of  a  woman,  and  he  re- 
joiced at  Chattie's  success. 

"Call  yourself  grown-up,  "he  observed  with  mock  frigidity,  as  the  girl 
came  dancing  up  the  path  one  morning.  "  Why,  you  are  an  imp  —  a  baby 
—  an  infant ! " 

Chattie  aimed  a  rose  at  him. 

"  No  matter,"  she  declared  ;  "  I  shall  have  someone  here  to-morrow  who 
will  protect  me  from  such  base  insinuations. " 

"  Is  Basil  coming  to-morrow?  "  asked  Ulrica. 

"  He  is,  your  gracious  majesty.  I  only  waited  for  his  arrival  before  I 
delighted  myself  with  a  donkey-ride." 

"  What  time  does  he  come?  " 

"  Some  unearthly  hour  in  the  morning.  Ulrica,  shall  you  be  glad  to  see 
him?  " 

"  Very ! "  smiled  Ulrica;  "  shall  you  ?  * 

Chattie  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  So,  so,"  she  observed  indifferently  ;  "  boys  are  such  nuisances."  Then 
tilting  her  hat  low  over  her  eyes,  and  plucking  at  the  grass,  she  said  slowly  : 
u  Yes,  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him  —  very  glad." 

"  Ah ! "  observed  Guy,  rising  and  patting  Chattie's  head  patronizingly  as 
he  passed,  "  k  will  be  so  pleasant  to  have  some  one  to  tell  you  your  eyes 
^re  green. " 

"  Wretch ! "  cried  Chattie. 

Ulrica  laughed  softly. 

"  Never  mind,  Chattie  ;  remember  what  the  poet  says  : 

*  Eyes  colored  like  a  water  flower, 
And  deeper  than  the  great  sea's  glass.' 

Could  anything  sound  more  beautiful  than  that  ?  " 

"  Only  this :  '  Eyes  like  stars  of  purity,  blue,  with  the  sapphire  of 
leaven,'  and  that  is  what  I  heard  said  of  your  eyes  once,  Ulrica. " 

Ulrica  colored  for  an  instant,  then  her  cheeks  grew  paler  than  before. 

"  Let  us  go  in  and  try  to  persuade  mother  to  come  down  to  the  sea,"  she 
laid,  and  she  rose. 

"  Now,  what  a  fool  I  am  1"  accused  Chattie  of  herself  as  she  followed 


1)56  HER   FATAL  SIN. 

Ulrica  indoors.  "  Of  course  I  remember  now  ;  it  was  Jack  who  said  that 
about  her.  Oh,  my  poor  darling !  and  I  have  pained  her  by  bringing  it  to 
her  remembrance. " 

Vexed  with  herself,  Chattie  strove  hard  to  efface  the  sad  memories  she 
had  awakened,  and  worked  to  apparent  success. 

Ulrica  smiled  and  joined  in  the  conversation  as  they  made  their  way  with 
Mrs.  Strong's  bath-chair  to  the  shore,  but  her  heart  was  throbbing  and 
beating  with  pain  and  intensity  of  longing. 

"  Oh,  my  love,  if  I  could  but  see  you  once  again  —  if  I  could  but  clasp 
your  hand  —  lay  my  weary  head  on  your  shoulder,  what  a  moment  of 
bliss  it  would  be !  But  that  can  never  come.  You  will  have  grown  to  hate 
me  —  to  believe  me  capable  of  deceiving — of  wronging  you.  You  will 
never  know  that  it  was  for  your  sake  —  to  save  you — I  yielded,  and  from 
my  lips  you  shall  never  know  it.  But,  oh,  Jack,  I  am  growing- weary  — 
sick  with  pain.  Love  cannot  be  crushed;  it  will  wound  me  till  I 
die." 

So  ran  the  current  of  her  thoughts. 

But  no  one  guessed  even  at  it.  Outwardly  she  chatted  and  laughed,  and 
seemed  even  better  than  ever,  and  Chattie's  spirits  rose  as  she  saw  this. 

The  next  morning  broke  bright  and  beautiful 
«-,Chattie  stole  into  Ulrica's  room. 

"  Do  you  feel  equal  to  a  drive  so  early?  "  she  asked,  as  she  saw  the  great 
blue  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  that  a  book  lay  on  the  table  beside  the  bed. 
"  Because  if  so,  I  thought  you  might  like  to  come  and  meet  Basil.  I  have 
had  a  letter,  and  his  train  only  comes  as  far  as  Garth,  so  I  shall  trot  over 
there. " 

Ulrica  smiled. 

"  Well,  I  scarcely  think  I  will  come,  Chattie.  I  am  sure  Basil  will  wish 
me  many  miles  away. " 

"  I  am  sure  he  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  observed  Chattie,  blushing 
furiously. 

Ulrica  laughed  softly  to  herself ;  then  said,  with  a  well-managed  sigh : 

"  Do  you  know,  I  scarcely  do  feel  up  to  it  this  morning,  Chattie." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry ;  then  I  won't  go,"  was  Chattie's  disconcerting  remark. 

"  Now,  Chattie,  you  vex  me. " 

"  Do  I,  darling  ?  "  inquired  the  girl,  demurely. 

"  Yes,  you  do,"  and  Ulrica  tried  to  look  severe.  "  Go  off  to  Garth  at 
once  —  at  once,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Mayn't  I  have  some  breakfast,  please  ?  " 

Ulrica  threw  her  book  at  the  hamds  held  demurely  before  her. 

"  Go  and  eat,  you  most  unromantic  creature!  I  will  see  Basil  when  he 
comes." 

So  Chattie  danced  away,  and  Ulrica  began  her  task  of  dressing  ;   it  was 
a  task  indeed,  as  any  one  would  have  said,  could  they  have  watched  the 
languid  movements  and  long  pauses  between  whiles. 
**  *  *  *  ***** 

"  But  where  is  Ulrica  ?  "  demanded  Basil,  as  he  stood  in  the  fresh  morn- 
ing-room, with  the  sea-breezes  softly  stirring  the  muslin  curtains  on  either 
side  of  the  French-windows. 

"  Don't  be  impatient  ;  you  shall  see  her  directly." 

Basil  snatched  a  kiss  from  his  pretty  love ;  then,  as  he  held  her  close  to 
him,  he  said : 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  167 

"  I  say;  Chattie,  old  fellow,  I've  got  some  news  for  you  —  some  I  don't 
think  you  will  care  about.  Are  you  quite  sure  no  one  will  hear  us  ?  I 
tried  to  tell  you  as  we  drove  here,  but  it  would  not  come  easily." 

"  What  is  it,  Basil  ?  "  Chattie  asked  quickly. 

"  Only  that  Connie  has  succeeded  at  last.     She  has  caught  Jack." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  she  is  engaged  to  Jack  ?  " 

There  was  pained  incredulity  in  Chattie' s  voice. 

"  Yes  ;  there  is  no  mistake  about  it,  dear,  for  I  have  just  seen  Jack  in  * 
town,  and  he  told  me  of  it  himself.     It  is  scarcely  complimentary  to  Con- 
nie, but,  by  Jove,  he  does  look  wretched." 

"  Basil,  did  you  speak  of  Ulrica  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  could  not.  I  don't  think  he  knows  anything  about  her  being 
here. " 

"  Poor  Jack  !  "  breathed  Chattie,  with  a  sigh. 

The  sigh  was  echoed  inaudibly  outside  the  window.  Ulrica  had  come 
softly  onto  the  verandah  from  the  garden;  a  smile  was  on  her  lips  —  a 
smile  of  welcome,  but  it  faded  away,  leaving  her  face  white  and  contracted 
with  pain  as  Basil's  voice  sounded  on  her  ears,  and  she  heard  the  news  that 
rang  the  knell  to  her  lost  love  and'her  shattered  dream. 

Well,  it  was  sudden,  but  it  was  not  quite  unexpected. 

Ulrica  was  steeled  in  the  lesson  of  endurance.  , 

She  forced  her  misery  back,  she  choked  the  sob  in  her  throat,  and  shft 
went  through  the  window  and  welcomed  Basil  with  a  lightheartedness  that 
amazed  him. 

For  one  moment  all  her  beauty  seemed  returned  with  transcendent 
splendor.  It  was  almost  the  Ulrica  of  old  that  Basil  saw ;  but  the  vision 
was  but  momentary. 

As  the  two  happy  young  people  flitted  away  at  a  call  from  Mrs.  Strong, 
Ulrica's  brightness  fled. 

She  staggered  to  a  chair,  and  sank  into  it,  feeling  once  again  weak, 
wretched,  and  ill. 

"  It  is  hard  to  say,"  she  mused  sadly,  as  she  gave  way  to  her  languor 
secure  in  her  solitude,  "  yet  God  knows  I  wish  him  —  yes,  they  —  happi- 
ness I  And  yet Oh,  Jack  —  my  Jack  ! " 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

JTTHE  night  was  dark  and  close  in  London  when  Graves  left  the  train 
1  that  had  borne  her  from  Seamouth  and  Ulrica. 

She  made  her  way  to  a  lodging  she  had  taken. 

Her  house  and  furniture  she  had  sold,  and  with  the  money  they  brought 
she  intended  to  satisfy  her  revenge. 

All  hope  in  life  was  centered  once  again  in  that  object. 

She  was  a  curious  nature — faith  like  a  fanatic  in  things  that  she  could 
trust  —  love  strong  as  iron  for  those  her  heart  turned  to. 

'She  had  thought  that  love  killed  when  her  only  child's  death,  caused 
through  shame,  was  told  her  ;  but  Ulrica  had  wound  herself  deeper  than 
she  could  ever  know  into  the  strange  affections  of  this  woman. 

Horace  Mott  little  guessed  the  sharp  edges  of  this  tool  whom  he  had  so 
skillfully  blinded. 

He  laughed  at  her  for  her  implicit  belief  in  him,  and  her  straightforward 
method  of  life ;  but  he  misread  Graves. 


1 68  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

She  could  have  faith  and  love,  but  she  could  also  hate,  and  hatred  with 
her  was  no  term  —  it  was  existence. 

She  sat  down  in  the  dusk  and  worked  out  her  plans. 

It  was  from  Mott's  ex-valet  —  a  man  named  Victor  —  she  had  learnt  that 
her  child's  betrayer  was  in  America,  and  thither  she  determined  to  go. 

Her  thoughts  worked  fleetly  as  she  sat ;  the  memory  of  Ulrica's  pale, 
beautiful  face,  with  its  sad  eyes,  stood  out. 

*  "  I  shall  do  you  a  service,  my  child, "  she  murmured.  "  God  cannot 
surely  be  angry  with  me.  Why  should  this  man  live?  Has  he  not  de- 
stroyed you  as  he  destroyed  my  child?  It  is  a  duty  I  alone  can  fulfill. " 

She  was  aroused  by  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell,  and  immediately  after  by  the 
entrance  of  her  landlady,  who  stared  hard  at  what  she  called  "  her  mad 
lodger." 

"  A  man  outside  wants  to  see  you." 

Graves  was  on  the  alert. 

"  Ask  his  name,"  she  said. 

The  other  woman  handed  her  a  dirty  scrap  of  paper,  on  which  a  name 
was  scrawled. 

It  was  the  man  Victor's.  •  . 

"  Show  him  in,"  she  said  hurriedly. 

The  ex-valet  came  in  quietly. 

When  the  door  was  shut  he  lowered  his  voice. 

"  Your  trip  to  America  needn't  come  off.     He's  back." 

Graves'  hands  were  clenched;  the  fire  of  hatred  and  revenge  glared  in  her 
eyes. 

"  In  London?  "  was  all  she  asked. 

"  Yes;  at  his  old  rooms,  swelling  it  like  the  villain  he  is.  He  must  have 
come  back  in  the  same  steamer  he  went  in,  for  he  has  been  there.  Shall 
you  go  to  him?  " 

"  This  very  night.     Come  with  me. " 

"  What  will  you  give  me  for  this?"  the  man  asked  eagerly. 

For  answer,  Graves  took  an  envelope  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  and 
extracting  a  bank-note,  tossed  it  to  the  man. 

"  That,"  she  answered  contemptuously  ;  "  but  you  must  lead  the  way." 

Victor  whistled  softly  to  himself. 

"  All  right.     Will  you  come  now  ?  " 

"Wait." 

Graves  went  into  her  bedroom,  and  opened  a  box.  She  took  out  some- 
thing, and  hid  it  in  the  folds  of  her  shawl. 

"  I  am  ready,"  she  said  to  the  man  ;  and  together  they  left  the  house. 

Through  the  hot  streets,  filled  with  a  throng  of  people  who  came  from 
their  toil  to  get  air,  the  two  walked  quickly.  They  did  not  speak. 

Vicfor  whistled  softly,  while  he  congratulated  himself  on  his  good 
fortune,  -as  his  fingers  caressed  the  fifty-pound  note  he  had  just  re- 
ceived. 

"  She  must  have  set  her  heart  on  the  job,  or  she  would  not  go  tossing 
her  money  about  like  that. " 

He  glanced  now  and  then  at  the  woman's  set  face,  and,  against  himself, 
he  shivered. 

"  She  means  mischief,"  he  thought,  nervously.  "  Well,  I  won't  be  in  it. 
I  won't  go  up-stairs.  I'll  leave  her  alone.  If  she  kicks  him,  it  will  do  him 
good." 

The  big  thoroughfares  were  traversed,  the  street  veached,  and  Victor 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  169 

pointed  to  the  door,  at  which  Guy  had  stood  that  winter  night,  only  a  few 
hours  too  late  to  see  Ulrica. 

The  man  would  have  moved  on,  but  she  stopped. 

"  Wait  till  I  see  whether  you  have  deceived  me,"  Graves  said  grimly. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  caretaker  of  the  chambers.  He  looked 
surprised  as  the  woman  asked  for  Mott. 

"  Yes,  he's  in  ;  but  he  can't  see  no  one.     Let  me  take  up  your  name." 

"  Show  me  his  door  ;  he  is  expecting  me. " 

The  caretaker  hesitated  ;  but  as  she  slipped  a  sovereign  into  his  hand  he 
yielded. 

He  caught  sight  of  Victor  just  as  he  was  closing  the  door,  and  he  called 
to  him  loudly  : 

"  Hi  1 — stop !    You'll  do  to  carry  down  some  boxes.     Hi !  " 

He  shut  the  door  on  Victor,  then  ran  quickly  up  the  stairs,  Graves  fol- 
lowing. 

Victor  remained,  still  whistling  to  himself. 

"  A  new  man  —  that's  good, "  he  said  inwardly.  "  The  other  lot  must 
have  gone,  and  he'd  have  known  me  directly.  Lor !  I  shall  be  glad  to  be 
away.  Her  face  makes  me  shudder  when  I  think  of  it ! " 

The  caretaker  ran  down  quickly. 

"  Strange  looking  party  that,"  he  observed  to  Victor.  "  Did  you  catch 
sight  of  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  valet's  reply.  "  I  thought  as  how  she  were  mad.  She 
were  going  on  anyhow.  Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  Never  see  her  before  ;  and  I  don't  think  Mr.  Mott  was  over-pleased  to 
meet  her.  He  give  me  a  look.  But,  there,  I  can't  help  it.  Wait  here  a 
minute,  I'll  soon  be  back."  The  man  returned  into  some  lower  region, 
leaving  Victor  in  the  hall,  silent  save  for  the  ticking  of  the  clock.  It 
seemed  an  hour,  but  it  was  only  a  few  seconds,  and  then  the  man  returned. 
"  Come  on  up-stairs.  Gent's  room  on  fourth  floor. "  . 

The  two  went  up  the  stairs,  Victor  not.  without  some  trepidation,  it 
must  be  confessed. 

"  It's  deuced  quiet,"  he  thought  to  himself,  as  the  moments  passed. 

But  even  as  he  did  so,  a  shriek  rang  out  on  the  stillness,  followed  by  cries 
and  loud  voices. 

The  two  men  stood  motionless,  and  grasped  each  other's  hands,  then 
simultaneously  turned  towards  Mott's  rooms. 

To  return  to  Graves. 

As  she  followed  the  man  into  the  apartment,  Horace  Mott  had  flung 
down  his  newspaper.  Another  man  was  in  the  room,  lounging  by  the 
open  window. 

"  Where  the  deuce  do  you  come  from?  "  Mott  asked,  with  an  oath. 

Graves  made  no  reply  at  once.  Her  face  was  pale  as  death.  Then  she 
smiled. 

"  Why  ask  me  when  you  know?  I  am  come  from  the  deuce,  Horace 
Mott." 

The  man  by  the  window  rose  suddenly,  but  Ulrica's  husband  turned. 

" Don't  go,  Carter;  there  are  no  secrets,  and  you  may  be  amused." 

Graves'  eyes  traveled  over  Major  Carter's  rubicund  countenance,  that 
had  a  perturbed  look  on  it. 

"  Yes — stay,"  she  said,  slowly;  "  you  may  be  amused." 

Mott  laughed,  but  his  face  did  not  look  pretty. 


170  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

"  And  pray,  why  have  you  left  your  home?  What  work  have  you  come 
to  do?  " 

"  Revenge ! "  cried  the  woman,  suddenly. 

Against  himself  Mott  winced,  but  it  was  only  for  an  instant. 

"  Revenge !     For  what,  pray?  " 

"  For  your  treachery —  your  miserable,  cowardly  sin.  You  who  came  to  me 
with  lies  on  your  lips  when  you  heard  that  I  had  sworn  to  take  the  life  of 
the  man  who  destroyed  my  child;  you  who  deceived  me;  blind  fool  that  I 
was;  and  worked  me  to  your  own  ends.  Yes  —  yes;  revenge,  Horace 
Mott !  Life  for  life !  As  you  have  killed  my  child,  and  ruined  that  poor, 
young  creature  whom  I  —  I !  —  helped  to  become  your  wife,  so  shall  your 
life  be  taken.  How  do  you  like  that  picture,  Horace  Mott  ?  Ah,  you 
thought  me  your  willing  tool  forever;  but  the  veil  has  been  drawn.  I 
know  you  at  last,  and  I  have  come  for  my  revenge ! " 

"  Are  you  drunk  or  mad  ?  "  asked  Mott  contemptuously. 

"  Scoff  on,"  said  the  woman  quietly.  "  I  am  neither  one  nor  the  other. 
My  brain  is  as  clear  as  yours.  I  can  read  your  cowardly  black  heart  to  its 
innermost,"  she  laughed  a  short,  bitter  laugh.  "  Well,  fool  as  you  have 
thought  me,  I  have  outwitted  you.  I  have  saved  her,  and  in  one  short 
moment  more  I  shall  have  freed  her  and  avenged  myself. " 

"  Ring  the  bell,  Carter,"  commanded  Mott,  contemptuously  —  he  moved 
away  as  he  spoke ;  "  we  must  rid  ourselves  of  this  Bedlamite. " 

But  Carter  did  not  go  to  the  bell;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  that  woman's 
form,  drawn  up  so  horribly,  so  curiously  against  the  table.  Then  he 
uttered  an  oath  and  seized  Mott  by  the  arm. 

"  '  Ware !  "  he  cried  wildly,  "  she  has  a  knife. " 

Mott's  teeth  were  set  in  his  pale  lip;  he  leaped  forward,  evaded  the 
thrust,  clutched  the  two  slender  wrists  in  his  strong  hands,  and  grappled 
with  his  foe. 

.  Carter,  his  face  frightened  to  a  blue  pallor,  tried  to  get  to  the  door,  but 
the  struggling  forms  barred  his  progress. 

It  was  an  awful,  a  terrible  sight  —  one  he  would  never  forget.  His  eyes 
were  clouded  for  a  time  with  the  intensity  of  fear.  Then  they  cleared. 
He  saw  the  steel  gleam  in  the  lamplight.  Then  came  one  shriek.  The 
woman's  hold  .was  loosened,  she  staggered  back,  and  Mott  fell,  gasping 
and  breathless,  against  the  table. 

"  Quick !  Call  help !  "  he  managed  to  say. 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  door  was  opened,  and  the  caretaker  followed  by 
Victor,  rushed  in. 

The  scene  was  a  strange  one. 

On  the  floor  lay  the  form  of  Graves,  face  downwards.  Carter,  still 
terror-stricken,  grasped  a  chair. 

The  two  men  at  the  door  advanced  slowly,  as  Mott,  recovering  himself 
with  an  oath,  knelt  down  by  the  woman  and  tried  to  lift  her  head. 

"  What  is  it  —  murder?"  gasped  Victor. 

Mott  looked  and  fixed  his  late  servant  with  his  eye. 

"  If  she  is  dead,  she  brought  it  on  herself,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Carter  can 
bear  witness  to  that.  Come  round  here,  one  of  you,  and  give  me  a  hand. " 

The  man  of  the  house  knelt  beside  him,  and  Victor  remained  where  he 
was,  feeling  cold  and  sick  at  this  termination  of  the  meeting  he  had  been 
instrumental  in  bringing  about. 

"  Who  is  she?  Do  you  know  her,  sir?  "  asked  the  caretaker  hurriedly. 
"  She  seemed  mad. " 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  171 

"  Poor  soul !  she  is  mad,"  was Mott's  reply.  Looking  round  again  at  Vic- 
tor, he  said  tersely  :  "  Fetch  a  policeman.  I  must  be  cleared  of  this. " 

The  caretaker  rose  from  his  knees. 

"  We  must  have  a  doctor,  too.  I  had  better  go.  Stay  here,"  he  said  to 
Victor  with  a  meaning  glance.  "  I  will  be  back  in  an  instant.  This  is  an 
ugly  night's  work." 

He  went  away  hastily,  leaving  the  three  men  silent,  with  Graves'  still 
form  lying  on  the  ground  at  their  feet. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

QLRICA  kept  the  knowledge  she  had  learnt  so  curtly  to  herself. 
Connie's  name  was  rarely  mentioned  by  one  of  the  party,  and  John 
Dunworthy's  never,  and  Chattie  could  not  bear  to  speak  of  the  marriage, 
over  which  her  mother  and  Connie  were  so  jubilant,  to  the  girl  whose  sad 
eyes  and  pale  cheeks  were  a  constant  reminder  that  for  her  all  happiness 
was  gone. 

"  Ulrica,  we  are  going  to  walk  to  Garth  along  the  shore,"  Chattie  said 
as  she  danced  into  the  drawing-room  one  day.  "  Of  course,  it  is  too  far 
for  you,  but  will  you  meet  us  down  by  the  old  boat,  and  we  can  come 
home  together. " 

"  Certainly,"  agreed  Ulrica,  putting  away  her  work — a  painting  she 
was  making  of  the  garden  with  the  sunlit  sea  in  the  distance.  "  I  thought 
of  going  there  with  my  book. " 

"  We  are  starting  now  ;  it  will  take  us  a  good  hour  and  a  half;  so  if  you 
like  to  wait  a  little  longer,  and  then  saunter  down,  you  can.  Uncle  Guy 
is  out  —  gone  to  some  sick  child,  of  course  ;  bless  that  man.  how  many  sick 
children  has  he  cured  ?  Mammy  Strong  is  lying  down." 

"  We  will  not  disturb  her,  then,"  said  Ulrica. 

"I  will  just  run  and  tell  Bruce  we  shall  be  at  the  old  boat  in  an  hour's 
time  in  case  we  should  be  wanted.  Give  me  a  kiss,  old  girl.  Do  you 
know,  Ulrica,  you  are  looking  so  sweet  ?  " 

Ulrica  smiled,  but  the  smile  went  as  Chattie  disappeared. 

She  wore  a  pale  pink  cotton,  a  band  encircling  her  slender  waist.  Guy 
had  gone  into  her  money  matters,  and  all  of  a  sudden  she  was  quite  ricti. 

The  return  of  wealth,  her  father's  money,  brought  no  pleasure,  save 
that  she  was  always  scheming  how  best  she  could  use  it  for  the  relief  of 
others. 

"  Yes,"  mused  Ulrica  as  she  wrapped  her  shawl  round  her,  "  that  is  it  — 
sleep  — sleep  and  forget  fulness.  I  am  so  tired  of  all." 

She  shivered  slightly  and  sank  back  in  her  corner  to  wait  for  Chattie 
and  Basil. 

Her  thoughts  would  wonder  to  the  sea;  though  she  opened  her  book,  her 
eyes  did  not  look  at  it. 

"  Is  it  wrong  to  wish  it?  "  she  asked  'herself ;  "  is  it  wicked  to  long  for 
the  end?  Ah,  well !  I  am  weak,  and  the  struggle  cannot  linger  forever. " 

She  sat  still  thinking  for  awhile,  and  the  children's  voices  were  carried 
on  the  wind,  forming  a  harmony  to  her  sad,  peaceful  mood. 

The  sound  of  some  one  approaching  broke  the  thread  of  Ulrica's  mus- 
ings. 

"  They  can't  be  back  already;  or  have  I  been  asleep?  Oh  no,  it  must  be 
Joe,  or  one  of  the  fishermen.  Well,  I  will  talk  to  him.  if  he  has  time. " 


17*  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

She  shut  her  book  and  waited,  then  drew  her  shawl  still 'closer  round 
her. 

The  footsteps  had  come  to  a  standstill  close  beside  her.  A  vague  intui- 
tion of  pain  and  pleasure  ran  over  her;  she  rose,  cast  her  eyes  round,  then 
with  an  exclamation  sank  back  in  her  seat,  her  hand  pressed  to  her  heart, 
her  book  fallen  at  her  feet,  the  wind  playing  with  the  open  leaves  heed- 
lessly. 

It  was  no  fisherman  she  beheld,  nor  Guy,  only  a  grave,  handsome  face, 
with  a  misery  of  eagerness  in  the  eyes  gazing  at  her  —  her  lover,  John  Dun- 
worthy. 

Sir  John  was  by  her  side  as  she  leaned  back  against  the  boat's  side,  so 
white  and  frail. 

"  Ulrica,  Ulrica !  My  God !  I  have  killed  her.  It  has  frightened  her. 
The  shock  was  too  much  for  her,  as  for  me  too !  I  thought  myself  brave, 
but  I  had  not  reckoned  on  this.  Ulrica — oh,  speak  to  me — look  at  me — 
my  one,  sweet  love ! " 

Slowly  the  color  ebbed  into  her  cheeks,  and  the  eyelids  were  lifted. 

"  It  is  no  dream,"  murmured  Ulrica;  "  it  is  you,  Jack  1 " 

Sir  John  pressed  her  cold  hands  to  his  lips  passionately,  the  misery  in 
his  heart  almost  choking  him. 

"  Oh,  my  darling ! "  was  all  he  could  say;  "  my  darling ! " 

Weak  as  she  was,  stunned  as  she  was  by  the  shock,  the  agony  in  his 
voice  recalled  Ulrica. 

"Don't,"  she  pleaded  gently — "don't,  Jack;  you  bi^ak  my  heart, 
dear!  Let  us  thank  God  that  we  are  permitted  to  see  one  another  —  if 
only  once  again.  You  startled  me  at  first ;  but  now,"  she  smiled  faintly, 
"  now,  dear,  you  see  I  am  all  right.  I  can  speak  to  you.  You  have  come 
to  see  me.  What  have  you  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  seek  this  meeting,  Ulrica.  I  did  not  even  know  you  were 
here.  I  came  down  to  see  Guy  and  Basil ;  but  oh,  my  darling !  if  you 
knew  what  I  have  suffered — how  I  have  struggled  to  keep  myself  from 
finding  you;  and  now  —  now,  when,  God  knows,  I  want  all  my  courage,  I 
see  you  thus ! " 

His  eyes  dropped  for  a  moment,  then  he  lifted  them  again  to  her  sweet, 
pure  face. 

"  It  is  fate,"  he  whispered  passionately.  "  Ulrica,  we  meet  never  to 
part.  Yes — yes,  that  is  it.  Oh,  my  darling,  my  lost  love,  at  last  you 
will  be  mine  ;  at  last  I  can  take  you  in  my  arms  and  shield  you  from  all 
harm  to  come.  It  must  be  so  —  yes,  it  must  be  so." 

Ulrica's  whole  form  trembled. 

Oh,  what  a  vista  of  happiness  seemed  suddenly  to  stretch  before  her ; 
for  one  instant  she  revelled  in  it,  then  a  cloak  fell  over  that  picture — a 
cloak  of  shame.  It  could  never  be. 

"  Jack,"  she  said  slowly,  "  my  darling,  could  you  but  see  into  my 
heart  and  read  its  secret,  you  would  know  what  these  words  cost  me.  It 
can  never  be.  I  —  I  am  bound,  tied  —  you  are  not  free  ;  we  must  part. 
It  is  sweet  to  see  you,  to  hold  your  hands,  to  hear  your  voice  —  how  I  nave 
prayed  for  it  all ;  but  it  is  false  sweetness.  Jack,  you  must  go,  you 
must." 

She  broke  off  and  sank  back  with  a  shuddering  sigh,  her  face  growing 
pale  even  to  the  lips. 

"  And  you  tell  me  to  go  when  you  are  like  this ! "  cried  Sir  John  madly. 
"  It  is  cruel,  Ulrica.  Not  free  ?  What  bond  would  hold  me  from  you  ? 


HER    FATAL  SIN.  173 

I  have  never  swerved  from  my  fealty  to  you,  my  queen,  my  love.  Oh, 
Ulrica,  don't  drive  me  to  despair.  Would  ten  thousand  women  like 
Connie  part  us  ?  You  know  they  would  not  ;  then  speak  to  me,  tell  me. " 

He  drew  the  frail,  slender  form  into  his  arms. 

"  Ulrica ! "  he  cried  wildly,  "  speak  to  me  !    Do  you  not  hear?" 

The  heavy  eyelids  opened  for  an  instant. 

44  Take  me  home,  Jack  ;  I  am  so  tired." 

"I  feared  this,"  said  Guy  tersely,  "and  hurried  on  here  as  soon  as  I 
learnt  that  you  had  come.  Run  and  get  me  some  water,  quick,  and  then 
we  must  carry  her  home.  Ah,  Dunworthy,  I  wish  from  my  heart,  old  fel- 
low, you  had  never  met  again.  It  can  only  mean  greater  sorrow  to  you 

DOUL 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

S  the  sound  of  the  footsteps  of  the  fleeting  caretaker  died  away,  Mott 
looked  round  savagely  at  Victor. 

"  This  is  some  of  your  infernal  work ! " 

Victor  shuddered. 

"  Have  you  killed  her?  "  he  breathed. 

Mott  left  the  silent  form  of  the  woman  and  gripped  the  arm  of  his  late 
servant  with  a  grip  of  iron. 

"  If  she  be  dead,  she  brought  it  on  herself.  I  shall  be  exonerated  from 
blame,  but  it  is  best  to  be  armed  at  all  points.  How  much  do  you  want? 
Quick,  your  price !  Hang  you !  can't  you  speak?" 

"  What  am  I  to  do?  "  asked  Victor,  still  appalled  with  horror. 

"  Swear  you  thought  the  woman  mad  ;  don't  seem  as  if  you  had  ever 
seen  me  before  —  you  understand?  You  shall  be  paid  handsomely.  Hush  J 
not  a  word  more.  Here  they  are. 

"  The  doctor  is  coming,"  he  gasped. 

The  policeman  stooped  over  the  body  and  put  his  hand  on  the  heart. 

"  This  is  an  ugly  case,"  he  said  as  if  to  himself,  then  produced  a  note- 
book. 

"  I  will  just  take  one  or  two  notes  till  the  doctor  comes,  if  you  please, 
sir." 

Horace  Mett  was  wiping  his  brow  with  his  handkerchief.  He  looked 
very  pale  ;  part  of  his  elaborate  smoking-jacket  was  torn.  Major  Carter 
sat  still,  never  opening  his  lips.  Victor  stood  by  the  table. 

"  Certainly, "  Mott  replied ;  "  I  will  give  you  all  the  information  in  my 
power." 

The  doctor  arrived  while  he  was  stating  this  clearly  and  concisely,  and 
there  was  a  breathless  silence  while  the  medical  man  made  a  short  exami- 
nation of  the  wounded  woman. 

"  I  can  do  nothing, "  he  said,  as  he  finished  ;  "  she  has  been  dead  I  should 
say  about  ten  minutes ;  this,"  holding  up  the  dagger,  "  has  gone  straight  to 
the  heart." 

There  was  a  murmur,  a  shudder  through  the  bystanders,  as  the  police- 
man took  the  small  weapon  and  examined  it  closely. 

14  The  name  of  the  maker  is  on  it,  which  is  fortunate  for  you,  sir,"  he 
said  to  Mott. 

The  latter  merely  nodded  his  head. 


174  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  come  with  you, "  he  observed,  after  he  had  detailed 
the  circumstances  of  Graves'  attack  upon  him. 

"  If  you  please,  sir." 

Mott  moved  to  his  dressing-room. 

"  Wake  up !  "  he  muttered  savagely  in  Carter's  ear;  then  with  the  same 
nonchalant  air  he  passed  out  of  the  room,  the  policeman  following  him 
respectfully  but  decidedly. 

"  She  spoke  of  Ulrica,"  ran  Mott's  thoughts  as  he  changed  his  clothes 
for  some  outdoor  garments.  "  If  I  could  but  have  got  some  clew  before 
she  went.  Well,  Victor  knows  more  than  he  thinks,  I  guess.  It  will  be 
odd  if  I  don't  run  my  wife  to  earth  —  she  will  not  leave  me  in  a  hurry  again 
when  I  do  find  her ! " 

Then  with  a  composed  face  he  returned  into  the  sitting-room,  where  a 
sheet  was  already  flung  over  the  dead  woman,  preparatory  to  the  body 
being  carried  away  for  an  inquest. 

Victor,  the  man  of  the  house,  Major  Carter,  and  one  or  two  others 
were  warned  their  presence  would  be  necessary  at  the  inquiry,  and  then, 
with  a  glitter  in  his  dark  eyes  that  betokened  no  sorrow  for  the  direful  deed 
his  hands  had  performed,  Horace  Mott  went  forth  under  the  protection  of 

the  law. 

*******  *  *  * 

Guy  bent  over  the  girl's  silent  form  with  an  agony  of  love  and  misery  in 
his  heart. 

"  If  I  could  but  bear  you  away  —  away  from  all  the  trials  that  beset  your 
young  life,"  he  thought  to  himself. 

Sir  John  was  back  almost  in  an  instant,  with  his  handkerchief  soaked  in 
the  sea  water. 

Guy  took  it  from  him. 

"  Dun  worthy,"  he  said  quietly,  almost  severely,  "  you  must  leave  us;  walk 
along  the  sands  to  your  right  — you  will  meet  Chattie  and  Basil ;  but  you 
must  not  stay  here —  it  is  cruel  to  her." 

Sir  John's  answer  was  to  seat  himself  down  on  the  old  boat,  cover  his 
face  with  his  hands,  and  groan  aloud. 

"  I  cannot  go — I  cannot,"  he  muttered  with  his  head  bent. 

"  Then  you  are  selfish  —  you  think  only  of  yourself. "    Guy  spoke  curtly. 

"You  ask  me  to  leave  her  when  she  looks  like  this!  "  Sir  John  lifted 
his  face,  from  which  even  the  youth  seemed  fled,  and  pointed  at  the  girl's, 
whose  trembling  lips  alone  showed  that  life  remained  in  her  body,  so  death- 
ly white  was  the  lovely  countenance.  "  By  Heavens !  Guy,  I  cannot  —  I  will 
not !  I  must  speak  to  her.  Fate  has  Thrown  us  together,  and  I  will  grasp 
this  chance!" 

"  To  what  end?  "  asked  Guy  sternly.  "  Do  you  love  her?  You  say  so, 
then  what  can  come  of  prolonging  an  interview  that  you  see  has  caused 
her  already  so  much  pain?  Believe  me,  dear  old  man,  1  feeljforyou  — from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  feel,  but  there  is  only  one  course  open  to  you  — 
to  go  away  at  once  and  without  delay. 

Sir  John  pressed  one  hand  over  his  eyes. 

•  "  Well,  I  will  leave  you  now,  but  I  shall  not  be  far  away.     And  give  me 
your  solemn  promise,  Guy,  that  if  —  if  she  should  ask  for  me,  you  will  fetch 
me  directly." 

•  "  I  promise,"  Guy  replied  ;  then  seeing  the  dark  fringed  eyelids  quiver, 
he  waved  his  hand  quickly.     "  Go  now;    she  wilj  be  better  alone  with 


HER  FATAL  SIN.  175 

He  could  not  bear  that  any  one  should  speak  to  him  at  this  moment ; 
his  anguish,  the  passion  of  his  despairing  love,  was  so  great. 

Ulrica's  eyes,  opening  from  that  land  of  strange  unconscious  darkness, 
met  the  tender  well-known  ones  set  in  Guy's  face. 

"  Uncle  Guy,  you Where —  what  has  happened  to  me  ?  "  she  tried 

to  whisper. 

"  You  have  been  foolish  enough  to  faint  —  that  is  all,"  he  answered  with 
one  of  his  rare  smiles. 

"Faint,"  she  repeated;  "why "  Then  memory Jcame  back;  she 

smiled  faintly,  but  with  intense  sadness.  "  Ah,  yes,  I  know  all  now." 

"  When  you  feel  a  little  better,  Ulrica, "he  observed  gently,  "I  will 
leave  you  to  fetch  a  bath-chair,  you  are  not  fit  to  walk  home. " 

"  Indeed  I  am,"  she  replied,  exerting  herself  to  rise  into  a  sitting  posi- 
tion, and  bringing  a  fleeting  lovely  shade  of  color  into  her  pale  cheeks  as 
fehe  did  so.  "  See,  I  am  quite  strong ! " 

"  A  perfect  amazon,"  smiled  Guy,  though  his  eyes  looked  weary  as  with 
sudden  pain;  "  still,  I  think,  dear,  it  will  be  wiser  to  have  the  chair." 

Ulrica's  strength  was  indeed  not  lasting;  as  he  spoke  she  sank  back  al- 
most exhausted. 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,  Uncle  Guy,  as  you  always  are. " 

Guy  stood  beside  her  while  she  rested,  her  eyes  gazing  across  the  sea, 
which  was  beginning  to  ebb  and  flow  now. 

The  sun  was  sinking  a  little  in  the  heavens,  and  its  golden  beams  were 
just  tinged  with  a  shade  of  growing  red  that  comes  in  the  early  autumn 
days.  % 

The  girl's  face  was  touched  by  these  ruddy  golden  rays,  and  it  seemed 
transfigured  to  Guy,  so  pure  and  delicate  did  it  look. 

Suddenly  Ulrica  put  out  her  hand, 

"  Uncle  Guy,"  she  said  softly,  lifting  her  glorious  eyes  to  him,  "  Jack  is 
here  still?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

A  shade  fell  over  Guy's  face. 

"  Is  it  wrong  to  see  him?  Oh,  if  I  could  see  him  just  once  more, 
before " 

"  Before  what?  "  Guy's  voice  sounded  almost  harsh. 

"  Before  he  goes  forever —  I  think  I  should  bj  better  if  I  did." 

"  I  will  take  you  home,  and  you  shall  see  him  to-night." 

Who  could  tell  the  anguish,  the  unselfishness  in  Guy's  heart? 

"  You  promise  ?  "  she  asked  softly. 

"  I  promise,  dear;  he  shall  come." 

Then  he  moved  away,  and  Ulrica  was  left  alone  gazing  across  the  sunlit 
waters  with  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  strange,  new  glory  in  her  eyes,  till 
Guy  returned  with  a  chair  and  she  was  drawn  slowly  home. 


HER  FATAL  SIN. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

JTjHE  afternoon  hours  had  faded  into  evening  dusk,  and  thence  into  the 

1      silver  radiance  of  the  moon's  warm  beams,  when  John  Dunworthy 
strode  through  the  small  village  to  take  • arewell  of  his  love. 

Ulrica  seemed  to  grow  stronger  each  moment;  she  encouraged  Chattie 
to  laugh  and  joke;  she  refused  to  see  the  sense  of  pain  and  discomfort  that 
hung  over  the  whole  party;  and  as  the  moon  broke  out  over  the  sea  she 
begged  Guy  to  let  her  put  a  shawl  around  her  and  wander  into  the  garden. 

He  shook  his  head,  but  she  pleaded  prettily. 

"  For  just  this  once,  Dr.  Guy,"  she  said,  putting  her  two  white  hands  in 
his  and  resting  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  "  Only  this  once ;  "  then  her 
voice  lowered  :  ''  I  should  like  to  meet  Jack  in  the  moonlight  and  the 
music  of  the  waves. "  She  laughed  a  short  laugh  that  betrayed  her  suffer- 
ing to  Guy's  quick  ear.  "  It  sounds  so  romantic,  doesn't  it,  Uncle  Guy  ?  " 

"  Ulrica, "  he  said  quietly,  "  are  you  wise  ?  Will  not  this  meeting  mean 
more  suffering,  dear  ?  " 

"  Wise ! "  she  repeated  with  a  sigh  of  unutterable  sadness ;  "  who  can 
have  wisdom  with  love  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  she  lifted  her  face  and  pressed  a 
kiss  on  his  cheek. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  my  true  friend,  don't  chide  me  —  don't  reason!  I  must 
see  him  once  again  ;  and  then ! ''  She  moved  away  suddenly,  threw  the 
light  woolen  shawl  over  her  head  and  shoulders  and  stepped  into  the  gar- 
den, her  garments  of  white  serge,  made  in  long,  plain  folds,  trailing  after 
her.  She  was  standing  in  the  moonlight,  looking  like  some  pale  lovely 
spirit  as  John  Dunworthy  came  up  the  garden-path.  Their  hands  were 
stretched  out  and  grasped  silently,  their  eyes  met,  dark  with  the  mutual 
burden  of  sorrow. 

Ulrica  spoke  first. 

"  Give  me  your  arm,"  she  said  gently.     "  Let  us  turn  down  here  ;  there 
is  a  gate  at  the  end,  and  we  can  see  over  the  sea. " 
:     "  But  are  you  strong  enough  ?  "  he  asked  huskily. 

^    "  To  night  I  feel  my  old  self  once  more ;  and,  Jack,  I  want  to  speak 
with  you. " 

Tenderly  he  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm,  and  they  wandered  down 
to  the  gate. 

Ulrica  leaned  against  one  of  the  posts  and  looked  across  the  silver- 
flecked  water. 

Sir  John  still  held  her  hand  as  she  gazed  out  to  the  dark-sea  border. 

At  last  she  spoke. 

"  Words  are  not  easy,  dear,"  she  said  faintly.  "  I  have  longed,  I  have 
prayed  in  the  hour  of  my  darkest  misery  for  such  a  moment  as  this,  and 
now  when  it  has  come  my  lips  seem  almost  dumb. " 

"  There  are  only  five  words  I  ask  you  to  speak."  Sir  John's  voice  was 
harsh  with  agitation.  "  Ulrica,  grant  me  this  one  request.  Say,  '  Jack,  I 
love  you  still. '  My  heart  craves  for  that,  Ulrica  ;  it  hungers,  and  must  be 
satisfied  J " 

"  Love  you  still ! "  the  girl  breathed  softly,  tremulously  ;  "  no,  no,  it  is 
too  poor  1  I  love  you  more,  ten  thousand  times  more,  than  when  we  parted ! 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  177 

Jack,  you  are  my  hero,  my  king,  my  one  living  thought !  Yes,  it  is  the 
truth  I  speak  now  for  the  last  time. " 

"  The  last  time !  No,  Ulrica  ;  with  such  words  ringing  in  my  ears;  do 
you  think  I  will  leave  you  ?  My  place  is  by  your  side,  my  darling,  from 
now  till  the  end. " 

Ulrica's  hands  covered  her  eyes;  she  would  not  see  the  pleading  in  his  face. 

14  Forgive  me,"  she  whispered ;  "I  am  wrong;  the  sudden  knowledge 
that  you  were  beside  me,  drove  me  to  say  those  words.  Forgive  me — 
oh,  forgive  me  1 " 

"  What  is  to  keep  us  asunder  ?  "  cried  the  man  suddenly  and  passionately. 
"  You  owe  no  duty,  no  obligation  to  him. " 

"  Honor  must  part  us. " 

Ulrica's  voice  penetrated  him  like  a  knife. 

"Jack,  "she  went  on  hurriedly,  "  it  was  wrong — yes,  I  see  k  now, 
wrong  to  ask  you  to  come — to  let  you  come  here  to-night ;  it  was  better 
we  should  have  parted  on  the  shore  this  afternoon  ;  this  must  mean  more 
paia  to  us,  but  I  was  weak,  I  hungered  to  see  your  face  once  more,  to 
grasp  your  hand,  to  hear  your  voice  sound  in  my  ears  as  it  used  to  only  one 
short  year  ago.  But  I  was  selfish,;  I  should  have  thought  of  you,  my 
darling  —  I  should  have  thought  of  you. " 

"  Ulrica,  listen  to  me.  Before  God,  I  swear  I  have  been  true  to  your 
dear  memory,  as  though  you  had  been  my  wife.  I  owe  Connie  Wren  no 
duty ;  she  trapped  me  too  cunningly.  Don't  think  me  mean,  cowardly, 
for  saying  this,  bnt  it  is  true.  I  have  told  her  my  heaK  can  ever  be  hers, 
but  she  does  not  marry  me  for  that  —  my  title,  my  rank,  my  riches  are 
things  far  more  to  her  taste  ;  why,  then,  should  I  consider  her  ?  Come 
with  me ;  we  will  leave  England,  go  away  together.  Ulrica,  Ulrica !  I 
cannot  live  without  you !  You  must  come !  " 

"  Jack,"  Ulrica  put  her  hand  on  his, "  how  you  are  maligning  your  nature  I 
You  to  put  aside  honor,  esteem,  respect  ?  No,  no,  dear  one ;  the  sacrifice 
shall  never  be  made  for  me.  Go  back  to  the  world.  Go  back  to  Connie  ; 
you  have  pledged  your  word  to  her,  it  must  never  be  broken ;  is  it  not  for 
your  no  oility  that  I  love  you  ?  Yes  ;  then  let  not  my  life  be  made  sadder 
by  the  thought  that  I  had  been  instrumental  in  bringing  the  faintest  cloud 
on  that  honor  Be  brave,  as  you  can  be.  God  has  decreed  our  lives 
must  be  apart ;  "we  must  not  rebel  against  his  command.  Think,  my  dar- 
ling, life  is  not  only  in  these  few  short  moments  of  misery ;  the  world  is 
before  you,  Jack ;  go  into  it,  and  remember  that  my  love  for  you  did  not 
tarnish  your  self-respect  and  honor,  but  spurred  you  on  to  value  them  as 
you  value  life." 

The  words  had  come  quickly  from  Ulrica's  lips.  Her  face  seemed  to 
Sir  John  the  face  of  an  angel  ;  her  voice  the  sweetest  music  he  had  ever 
heard  ;  she  looked  the  incarnation  of  nobility  and  purity,  and  every  word 
went  home. 

He  stood  silent  for  a  while.  In  that  moment  he  fought  the  bitterest  bat- 
tle of  his  life.  Love  struggled  —  urged  him  on ;  but  Ulrica  had  not  spoken 
m  vain.  He  turned  round  suddenly,  then,  stooping  for  her  hand,  he  pressed 
his  lips  to  it  tenderly. 

u  I  will  do  as  you  say,  my  darling —  my  pure  love  —  though  the  task  cost 
me  as  it  must,  a  lifetime  of  misery." 

Ulrica  smiled  on  him,  and  her  lips  formed  rather  than  spokes 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dearest !  Now  go  —  quickly  1  Say  good-bye  to  them 
alL  Wo  must  not  meel  again,  Jack,  or  our  courage  will  fail." 


178  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

He  buried  his  face  on  his  arms,  folded  on  the  gate.  For  many  minutes 
he  stood  thus,  while  she  placed  her  trembling  hand  on  his  head,  giving  him 
a  silent  blessing.  . 

"  Yes,  I  must  go,  Good-bye,  my  one  sweet  love !  God  have  you  in 
His  keeping  I  I " 

Words  choked  themselves  in  a  great  sob,  and,  with  a  gesture  of  farewell, 
John  Dunworthy  turned  abruptly  away  and  strode  out  of  the  moonlight 

into  the  dark  shadows. 

*  ********* 

Connie,  meanwhile,  was  in  the  very  height  of —to  her  —  pleasurable 
business. 

Her  whole  time  was  occupied  by  the  demands  of  her  dressmakers,  mil- 
liners, tailors,  etc. 

She  was  in  London,  under  the  chaperonage  of  her  future  mother-in-law, 
though  she  grew  irritable  beyond  control  almost  at  Lady  Dunworthy's  in- 
terference and  love  of  arrangement. 

The  fact,  too,  that  Sir  John  was  very  seldom  in  attendance  upon  her 
was  most  annoying  to  his  fiancee,  whose  small  nature  would  have  loved  to 
have  paraded  her  conquest  before  the  world  on  every  possible  opportunity. 

No  exact  date  had  been  fixed  for  the  wedding-day,  though  Connie  and 
Lady  Dunworthy  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  really  no  cause 
for  delay ;  and  the  ceremony  might  take  place  as  soon  as  the  trousseau 
could  be  got  ready. 

Sir  John,  on  leaving  Seamouth,  traveled  by  express  up  to  London  ;  but 
nothing  was  further  from  his  thoughts  than  a  visit  then  to  either  his  mother 
or  the  girl  who  was  to  be  his  wife. 

He  passed  a  wretched  night,  and,  in  the  morning,  rose  with  aconclusion 
in  his  mind. 

"  If  I  stay  in  England  I  shall  go  mad,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  will  go 
abroad  again  for  some  time.  Connie  can  make  as  much  as  she  likes  of  her 
engagement  to  me,  but  the  marriage  cannot  —  shall  not — be  just  yet." 

This  intention  was  strengthened  and  settled  as  he  opened  his  morning 
paper,  and  his  eyes  rested  on  a  paragraph. 

His  orovv  darkened,  and  his  teeth  met  in  his  lip. 

The  words  he  read  dwelt  on  Horace  Mott  and  the  stabbing  affray,  re- 
sulting in  a  verdict  of  acquittal  for  him,  brought  about  by  the  strongest 
evidence  in  his  favor,  given  by  Vic-tor,  the  caretaker,  and  Major  Carter. 

"  Good  God !  And  this  is  the  brute  to  whom  she  is  tied.  If  we  but 
knew,  this  is  a  case  of  murder,  perhaps.  Yes  —  yes  ;  I  must  go  now,  for 
if  I  stay  in  England  no  power  of  man  will  keep  me  from  her  ;  and  I  shall 
have  proved  myself  unworthy  of  her  pure  great  love !  Oh,  Ulrica,  Ulrica, 
you  little  guess,  dear,  how  hard  a  task  you  have  set  me  1 " 

He  stood  gazing  out  of  the  window  in  a  blank  way  as  his  thoughts 
worked  on. 

"  If  there  were  but  one  glimmer  of  hope,  I  could  endure  this  and  more 
for  your  sake  ;  but  the  way  is  so  dark  ;  each  step  but  separates  me  from 
you,  and  my  feet  falter." 

He  began  to  pace  the  room  in  a  quick,  nervous  way;  then  came  to  a 
standstill. 

"  Come,  John  Dunworthy,  don't  let  your  conscience  call  you  a  coward ! 
think  of  her,  and  remember  her  dear  words.  Get  to  your  task  with  all  the 
bravery,  the  nobility  she  credits  you  with.  Does  she  falter — and  what  is 
your  struggle  and  pain  to  hers  ?  " 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  I  79 

So  thinking,  he  got  his  hat,  and  was  driven  off  rapidly  to  the  hotel, 
where  his  mother  and  Connie  were  staying. 

Lady  Dunworthy  »was  in  a  small  room,  which  she  grandiloquently  de- 
scribed as  her  boudoir,  and  Connie  was  with  her. 

Lady  Dunworthy  uttered  an  exclamation  when  her  son  came  in  ;  Connie 
blushed,  but  was  by  no  means  averse  to  her  betrothed  seeing  her  in 
deshabille. 

"  At  last,  John !     Where  have  you  been?  "  cried  his  mother. 

"  In  London  for  the  last  day,  or  rather  night,"  was  his  terse  reply. 

He  made  no  movement  to  kiss  Connie ;  he  was  ready  to  fulfill  his  word 
of  honor,  and  make  her  his  wife,  but  he  was  no  hypocrite  j  caresses  to  her 
were  impossible. 

"  And  before  then?  "  asked  Connie  coyly. 

"  I  went  down  into  the  country  to  see  a  fnend.  What  have  you  been 
doing?  " 

Lady  Dunworthy  nodded  her  large  head. 

"As  busy  as  two  women  can  be.  A  wedding  does  not  come  every 
day,  remember.  John." 

He  shivered  slightly. 

A  wedding!     Was  it  not  more  like  a  funeral,  so  hideous  did  it  seem. 

"  Mother,  -will  you  pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  a  favor?  I  want  to  speak  to 
Connie  clone. " 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  lead  her  to  the  door. 

Lady  Dunworthy  beamed  graciously. 

"Of  course!  How  remiss  of  me!  Do  forgive  me;  I  shall  not  disturb 
you  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Five  minutes  will  suffice,"  he  replied. 

Connie  started,  and  her  face  was  disfigured  with  a  frown  :  there  was 
something  in  his  grave  voice  not  pleasant  to  hear. 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  smile  as  soon  as  they  were  alone. 

"  Well,  what  important  communication  am  I  to  hear,  Jack  ?  " 

Sir  John  winced. 

"This,"  he  said  coldly  ;  "I  don't  think  it  is  necessary,  Connie,  to  go 
back  to  the  night  of  our  engagement ;  I  believe  you  remember  clearly 
what  happened — how  I  spoke  to  you  openly,  perhaps  curtly,  saying  that 
I  had  no  love  to  offer  you,  and-  that  a  marriage  between  us  could  never 
afford  me  any  happiness. " 

Connie  stood  with  her  back  to  him  ;  the  full  effect  of  her  yellow  silky 
hair  was  revealed,  but  it  had  no  enthralling  beauty  to  him  ;  it  spoke  too 
clearly  of  coldness,  hardness  ^nd  unreality  ;  and  the  vision  of  Ulrica's  pale, 
sad  lovely  face,  set  in  the  framework  of  dark -brown  short  locks,  the  rem- 
nant of  her  once  luxuriant  masses,  was  too  prominently  before  his  eyes. 

Connie's  two  hands  were  clenched  tightly  together. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  but  not  very  distinctly  ;  "  I  remember  well." 

"Then  my  task  is  easier,"  Sir  John  continued.  "  I  do  not  pretend  to 
say  that  this  marriage  is  even  an  agreeable  thought  to  me.  The  sorrow 
that  has  come  into  my  life  is  not  one  to  be  effaced  or  to  be  glossed  over  by 
such  means.  In  my  heart  I  feel  that  I  am  untrue  and  treacherous  to  the 
woman  who  sacrificed  her  life's  happiness  to  save  me  from  ill-treatment,  as 
she  was  falsely  made  to  believe.  No ;  this  would  be  impossible.  It  rested 
in  your  hands,  Connie,  that  other  night,  to  have  delivered  me  from  my 
painful  position,  but  this  you  would  not  do.  You  have  chosen  to  link  your 
life  with  me.  So  be  it ;  as  a  man  of  honor,  I  can  do  nothing  but  gratify 


l8o  HER    FATAL   SIN 

your  ambition,  but  at  the  same  time  I  must  beg,  with  your  permission,  to 
postpone  the  date  of  our  marriage  to  some  more  distant  opportunity." 

Connie,  behind  the  barrier  of  her  flowing  hair,  fdt  cold  and  sick  with 
disappointment. 

"  What  reason  have  you  for  this  ?  "   she  asked. 

He  gave  a  short,  bitter  sigh. 

"  I  wish  to  go  abroad  again  for  some  months. " 

"  You  mean  you  wish  to  leave  England?  "  cried  Connie,  letting  her  petty 
spite  and  never-dying  jealousy  of  Ulrica  flame  out.  "  Oh,  I  begin  to 
understand !  You  have  met  that  false  creature  again,  and  she  is  trying  to 
make  you  break  your  word.  I " 

"  Silence  ! " 

Sir  John's  face  had  never  looked  to  Connie  as  it  did  now;  his  nand  fell 
on  her  shoulder  almost  heavily. 

"  Dare  to  speak  of  her  in  that  way  again,  and  honor  or  no  honor,  I  swear 
you  shall  never  be  my  wife !  Oh,  how  pitiful  • —  how  miserable  must  be 
your  nature  to  say  such  things  of  one  who  never  injured  you,  and  who, 
even  at  every  cost,  has  pleaded  your  cause,  like  the  angel  she  is ! " 

"  I  am  infinitely  obliged,"  Connie  sneered,  just  looking  at  him  with  her 
cold  blue  eyes;  "  but  I  prefer  not  to  be  pleaded  for  by  her  " 

Sir  John  let  his  hand  fall  awav  from  her  shoulder. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  to  be — my  wealth,  title,  name,  or  nothing?*' 

In  his  heart  he  whispered : 

"  If  she  have  the  smallest  pride  she  must  release  me ! " 

But  he  little  knew  Connie  Wren. 

She  moved  languidly  from  the  window  to  the  table. 

"  Since  you  have  been  so  candid  with  me,  I  may  as  well  return  the  com- 
pliment. I  am  not  so  easily  vanquished,  Sir  John,  and  I  hold  you  to  your 
word.  It  is  to  be  your  name,  wealth,  and  title,  with  your  permission." 

"  Good ! "  the  young  man  took  up  his  hat  and  went  to  the  door  "  I  may 
be  absent  six  months.  Which  would  you  prefer,  to  tell  my  mother  your- 
self or  let  me  do  that?  " 

He  spoke  as  to  the  merest  stranger. 

"  Leave  it  to  me,"  Connie  said  hurriedly. 

Sir  John  bowed  courteously,  opened  the  door,  and  went  away  without 
another  word. 

Outside  in  the  sunshine  he  heaved  a  sigh  as  if  some  hope  were  gone. 

"  I  have  fulfilled  your  wish,  my  darling,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Hence- 
forth I  am  pledged  apart  from  you,  with  only  the  memory  of  our  brief, 
great  happiness  to  shine  in  my  heart—  only  the*  memory  of  your  purity, 
your  unselfishness,  to  spur  me  on  to  good. " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

ULRICA  was  strangely  quiet,  yet  contented  —  at  least,  so  it  seemed  to 
the  others,  after  that  meeting  with  her  lover. 

She  was  careful  to  disguise  from  them  all  what  suffering  lived  in  her 
breast,  and  how  miserable  she  was  indeed. 

One  short  note  had  come  to  her  a  few  days  later,  and  she  read  it  down 
by  the  sea,  the  ripple  of  the  waves  sounding  an  accompaniment  to  it  as 
she  read  each  word: 


HER   FATAL  SIN.  l8l 

"  I  have  done  as  you  asked,  my  darling.  If  you  hear  I  am  gone  abroad, 
you  will  know  it  is  onry  because  I  cannot  lose  your  memory  yet,  and  for- 
get  the  links  that  almost  eat  into  me  with  their  misery  Think  of  me, 
pray  for  me,  Ulrica,  as  1  will  for  you;  the  prayers  of  such  a  soul  as  yours 
must  be  heard.  I  will  turn  to  yo*r  dear  memory  as  to  a  guardian  angel, 
from  whom  parity  and  goodness  corae.  Ulrica,  God  bless  you,  my  one 
precious,  my  only  lore !  JACK." 

She  earned  the  senseless  paper  to  her  lips,  then  put  it  next  her  heart  and 
gazed  at  the  sea  with  a  mist  of  unshed  tears  in  her  eyes. 

She  turned  her  back  on  the  waves  and  went  towards  the  cottage, 

"  After  all,  I  am  wrong  to  wish  for  things  that  cannot  come.  Let  me 
think  of  all  the  blessings  I  have  now  —  love  and  sympathy  from  four  true 

hearts — is  not  that  a  treasure  i  ought  to  value?  " 

•  *  »  *  *  *  *  *  •  * 

News  was  slow  to  travel  down  to  Seamouth.  Guy  used  "to  go  to  the 
small  hotel  and  read  the  daily  papers;  was  U  some  instinct  that  warned  him  to 
keep  them  from  Ulrica's  reach?  His  mother  never  cared  for  such  things, 
and  Basil  and  Chattie  were  too  happy  to  give1  a  second  thought  to  what 
was  going  on  in  the  world,  so  no  one  but  Guy  knew  of  Graves'  death  and 
the  reappearance  of  Horace  Mott  in  London. 

He  was  shocked  and  puzzled  how  to  act,  especially  as  Ulrica  began  to 
express  her  wonder  that  Graves  never  wrote. 

On  the  morning  that  John  Dunworthy's  little  note  came  to  her,  Guy 
had  gone  out  on  purpose  to  commune  with  himself  as  to  how  he  should 
break  the  news  to  her. 

Ulrica  paced  the  shore  slowly;  she  soon  felt  tired,  and,  by  herself,  was 
some  time  in  reaching  the  house.  She  was  just  leaving  a  group  of  fishing- 
boats,  pulled  up  high,  as  the  tide  came  in  strong  and  full  now,  when  a 
voice  accosted  her. 

A  cold  shiver  passed  through  her;  a  man  came  from  behind  one  of  the 
boats. 

"  Mrs.  Mott  —  madam, "  he  muttered  quickly. 
j    Ulrica  stopped. 

She  recognized  him  at  once  as  her  husband's  valet — the  man  he  had 
discharged. 

She  put  out  one  of  her  frail  hands  and  supported  her  trembling  limb* 
against  a  boat. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  she  faltered. 

The  man  looked  at  her  with  some  pity  in  his  eyes.  How  changed  she 
was  1  he  remembered  her  wonderful  beauty  of  only  a  year  past.  But  pity 
did  not  last  long. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  to  catch  you,"  was  his  answer.  "  I  have  some 
Information  for  you. " 

Ulrica  looked  up  at  him  silently. 

"I'm  poor  and  can't  be  generous,"  went  on  Victor;  "but  I'll  sell  it 
to  you." 

Ulrica  tried  to  shake  off  her  weakness. 

11  Information !  sell  1 "  she  repeated  as  her  eyes  closed  for  an  instant; 
'  that  do  you  want  me  to  give  you?  " 

Victor  checked  a  whistle. 

1  Then  it  is  true ;  she  'ave  got  money,"  he  said  to  himself. 
'Have  you  got  twenty  pounds?  "  he  asked,  eagerly 
'It  shall  be  sent  you,  you  can  trust  .me." 


1 82  HER  FATAL  SIN. 

Victor  nodded  his  head. 

"  Yes,  that  I  can,  ma'am.  Well,  here  goes:  Yer  husband  'as  found  out 
where  you  is;  he.'s  coming  down  after  you.  I  suppose  you've  heard  as 
he've  got  off  for  stabbing  that  woman  Graves  to  death,  he " 

"  What ! " 

Ulrica's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  man  with  an  expression  of  horror,  she 
turned  ghastly  pale,  and  staggered  against  the  boat.  Her  very  lips  seemed 
frozen.  Then  a  sudden  burst  of  strength  came  to  her.  She  waved  him  aside. 

"Don't  tell  me  anymore,  I  cannot  bear  it  —  follow  me.  The  money 
shall " 

Victor  did  as  he  was  bid.  He  followed  the  slender  form  as  it  walked 
slowly  and  with  difficulty  to  the  house,  and  after  a  few  minutes  a  neat 
maid  brought  him  an  envelope,  which,  on  opening  eagerly,  he  found  con- 
tained four  five-pound  bank-notes. 

"  She  is  a  woman  of  her  word,  by  George !  "  he  thought. 

He  whistled  to  himself  as  he  made  his  way  to  the  hotel  and  ordered 
some  brandy,  then  gave  himself  up  to  the  delight  of  admiring  his  bank- 
notes once  again. 

The  bar  was  empty,  as  he  thought;  but  while  he  was  making  his  calcula- 
tions, a  hand  was  put  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  voice  rang  m  his  ear: 

"  Very  good,  but  yo«  really  should  make  your  plans  better. " 

It  was  Horace  Mott,  of  whose  advent  Victor  had  just  warned  UIrica,but 
whom  he  little  expected  to  see. 

The  man  was  nonplussed. 

"  This  letter,  my  dear  Victor,"  Mott  continued,  showing  an  envelope, 
"  from  my  dear  wife  to  Graves,  found  on  my  floor,  has  put  me  in  posses- 
sion of  everything  I  care  to  know.  Ha,  ha!  Mrs.  Mott  will  not  be  so 

bountiful  of  her  five-pound  notes  in  future ! " 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Chattie  danced  up  stairs  from  her  walk,  but  Mary  came  forward  and 
warned  her  not  to  wake  Ulrica. 

"  She  has  gone  to  take  a  rest ;  she  has  been  writing  some  letters,  miss." 

Chattie  stole  away,  and  the  afternoon  crept  into  evening. 

Guy  had  gone  up  to  Ulrica's  door,  but  finding  everything  quiet,  he  re- 
frained from  disturbing  her ;  rest,  he  knew,  was  the  best  thing  in  her  weak 
state. 

As  they  sat  at  dinner,  a  ring  came  at  the  gate,  and  Guy  rose  with  a 
strange  sense  of  coming  evil  as  Bruce  ushered  in  a  gentleman. 

Though  he  smiled  and  held  out  his  hand,  no  one  responded. 

"I  am  sorry  to  intrude  upon  you,"  said  Horace  Mott  pleasantly;  "my 
visit  is  to  my  wife." 

Guy  put  one  hand  on  a  chair  ;  his  voice  was  cold  and  hard. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Mott's  medical  attendant,  and  I  regret  that  I  cannot  permit 
you  to  see  her  ;  she  is  not  strong  enough  to  bear  the  excitement." 

"  I  am  the  best  judge  of  that ;  kindly  lead  me  to  her  room,  or  inform 
her  of  my  presence." 

An  ominous  frown  was  on  Horace  Mott's  face. 

"  Mother,  will  you  go  to  Ulrica,  or  shall  1  ?  " 

Mrs.  Strong  had  grown  pale. 

'"  You  go,  Guy ;  tell  her  she  shall  never  be  taken  from  me.  Sir,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Strong,  turning  to  Mott,  "  I  beg  to  inform  you  that  I  refuse 
to  permit  Ulrica  to  go  with  you  ;  she  will  at  our  instigation  institute  pro- 
ceedings for  an  immediate  separation. " 


HER  FATAL  SIH.  183 

"  Indeed,"  was  all  Mott  said,  with  an  ugly  look  round  his  mouth ;  "  that 
will  be  both  expensive  and  useless,  I  think  ;  in  the  meantime  I  insist  on 
seeing  my  wife.  I  can  quite  understand  you  have  a  good  motive  in  keep- 
ing Mrs.  Mott  with  you,  madam,  now  that  she  is  possessed  of  her  large 
fortune  again. " 

Basil  rose  as  if  to  strike  the  speaker,  but  Chattie  pulled  him  back. 

Guy  merely  pressed  his  mother's  hand,  then  turned  to--Mott. 

"  Wait  here,  sir  ;  I  will  inform  Ulrica  of  your  presence  and  wish  ;  but 
understand  me,  if  she  refuses  to  see  you,  1  shall  abide  by  that  wish. " 

He  left  the  room,  and  went  slowly  up-stairs. 

Mott  stood  in  a  languid  easy  attitude,  but  neither  of  the  three  left  ad- 
dressed him. 

Suddenly  his  name  was  called. 

Guy's  voice  sounded  curiously  strained  and  harsh.  His  mother  started 
as  if  she  did  not  know  it. 

Bruce  held  open  the  door,  and  led  Horace  Mott  up-stairs. 

On  the  landing  Guy  met  him. 

"You  insist  on  seeing  your  wife?"  he  asked.  Even  in  the  twilight 
Mott  could  see  how  gray  his  face  looked. 

"  I  do, "  was  the  fierce  answer. 

"  Then  follow  me ! " 

Mott  turned  and  walked  up  the  small  passage.  A  door  was  ajar,  a  soft 
breeze  floated  in  through  an  open  window.  A  chair  was  drawn  up  at  the 
window,  and  in  this  reclined  a  woman's  form. 

"  Speak  to  her,"  said  Guy. 

Mott  strode  over  to  the  chair,  bent  his  head,  and  then  recoiled. 

His  gaze  rested  on  a  cold,  set  face  ;  two  great  staring  eyes  met  his  ,  a 
'mouth,  still  symmetrical,  half  open  ;  it  was  awful,  a  beautiful  face  still— 
the  face  of  death. 

He  wiped  his  br,ow  and  staggered  to  the  wind«w,  while  Guy  knelt  down 
beside  the  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Ulrica's  troubles  were  ended  at  last  j  no  fears,  no  regrets,  no  shame,  no 

love,  now  she  was  dead. 

*«******••» 

"  I  bequeath  to  Charlotte  Wren  all  the  money  I  possess  in  the  world  on  , 
condition  that  she  marries  Basil  Morne  within  a  year." 

So  ran  the  short  will  drawn  up  on  half  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  and 
signed  by  Bruce  and  Mary,  found  on  the  table  beside  Ulrica.  Even  to  the 
last  her  thoughts  were  of  others ;  she  knew  Chattie  and  Basil  had  not 
enough  to  marry  on,  and  she  determined  their  happiness  should  come  if 
possible. 

At  first  neither  Basil  nor  she  could  bring  themselves  to  accept  their  hap- 
piness from  the  tender  dead  hand  ;  but  Guy,  who  seemed  to  have  grown 
quiet  and  almost  old,  spoke  eloquently  to  them  on  the  subject  at  length, 
dwelt  on  the  loyalty  they  owed  to  that  last -written  wish,  and  they  yielded. 

Unknown  to  Chattie,  Horace  Mott  had  threatened  to  bring  a  law-suit 
against  her  to  recover  his  wife's  money,  left,  so  he  urged,  by  undue  influ- 
ence, away  from  him. 

He  was  never  heard  of  by  any  of  them  more,  save  by  Guy,  and  he  kept 
silent.  Only  once  did  he  open  his  lips  on  the  subject,  and  that  was  years 
after  to  John  Dumvorthy,  who,  grown  into  a  cold,  hard,  prematurely  aged 
man,  came  to  see  him  at  Bathurst,  in  one  of  his  fleeting  visits  to  his  native 
land. 


184  HER   FATAL   SIN. 

They  were  wandering  in  the  grounds  bathed  in  the  sunlight,  as  they  had 
been  in  those  bygone  days,  when  Guy  spoke.  , 

"  Jack,"  he  said,  "  will  you  tell  me  of  that  man's  end  ?  " 

Sir  John  shuddered  slightly. 

"  It  was  terrible,  Guy.  Even  I,  who  had  cause  to  hate  him  as  much  as 
any  one,  pitied  him.  Several  times  in  my  travels  I  came  across  him  ;  each 
time  he  looked  more  miserable  and  debased.  It  was  at  Montreal,  our  last 
meeting.  I  learnt  afterwards  that  he  had  sunk  so  low  through  depravity 
and  want  as  to  take  Government  money  from  Russia,  to  spy  out  the  Nihi- 
list doings ;  and  to  further  this  end,  he  became  one  of  a  secret  body  of 
conspirators.  I  saw  him  the  very  morning  of  his  last  day  on  earth  ;  the 
news  of  his  treacherous  calling  had  come  to  the  ears  of  the  heads  of  the 
secret  society,  and  maddened  by  his  treachery,  they  literally  tore  him  to 
pieces.  It  was  their  last  work  before  they  were  shipped  off  to  Russia,  de- 
nounced through  Mott,  and  they  did  it  well.  The  authorities  tried  to  save 
him  in  vain.  Even  I  went  to  get  aid  to  tear  him  from  his  late  comrades. 
I  was  too  late  ;  he  had  already  been  executed,  and  died  a  traitor's  death." 

Gny  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul ! "  he  said  slowly  after  a  pause  ;  then  put- 
ting his  hand  an  John  Dunworthy's  arm,  he  went  on  : 

"  Jack,  there  is  something  else  I  want  to  ask  you.  Are  you  never  com- 
ing back  to  Dunworthy  and  your  wife  ?  Remember  you  have  duties." 

"  I  owe  none  to  her,"  was  the  stern  reply,  "  Guy,  don't  speak  of  this 
again.  Had  I  ever  seen  one  single  spark  of  kindness,  of  womanliness  in 
Connie,  I  might  have  altered  ;  but  there  is  none.  Three  times  I  flung  my- 
self .on  her  generosity,  and  each  time  she  kept  me  to  my  word,  knowing 
full  well  that  my  heart  was  broken  and  buried  in  my  one  love's  grave.  I 
fulfilled  my  word.  She  is  my  wife ;  she  has  that  for  which  she  married  me 
—  my  rank  and  riches,  and  she  has  what  gives  her  happiness.  I  have  my 
freedom,  and  that  is  all  I  ask.  Come,  Guy,  you  know  there  is  little 
trouble  to  be  seen  on  Constance,  Lady  Dunworthy's  worldly  face." 

Guy  did  not  answer  at  first ;  this  last  remark  could  not  be  contradicted 
he  knew  right  well. 

"  Can  you  never  forgive  her,  Jack  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  hare  forgiven  her  long  ago  ;  but  there  it  all  must  end.  She  can  never 
be  anything  to  me. " 

They  changed  the  conversation,  and  strolled  on  till  the  hour  came  for 
parting. 

As  they  clasped  hands  in  farewell  once  more,  they  little  thought  it  would 
be  for  the  last  time.  . 

Bathurst  never  saw  John  Dunworthy  again.  His  yacht  was  wrecked  in 
the  Bay  of  Biscay,  and  he  perished  trying  to  rescue  one  of  the  crew. 

Guy  Strong  was  sitting  in  his  study  when  the  news  came. 

It  did  not  surprise  him.  So  much  sorrow  had  come  of  late  —  for  his 
mother,  too,  had  passed  away  —  that  he  was  resigned  to  all. 

He  rose  after  a  while,  and  going  to  his  cabinet  took  out  a  scrap  of  paper; 
it  was  a  broken  letter  formed  by  Ulrica's  dear  hand  that  summer  night  so 
longago,  and  ran  thus  : 

"DEAREST,  TRUEST  FRIEND:  —  The  end  has  come.  I  have  known  for 
the  past  year  how  weak  my  heart  has  been,  though  you  have  thought  me 
ignorant ;  to-day  I  have  received  a  shock;  1  can  scarcely  hold  the  pen.  G»d 
bless  you  all  —  mother,  Jack,  and  you !  I  am " 

That  was  all. 


HER   FATAL   SIN.  185 

a  In  life  they  had  sorrow  and  pain, "  Guy  said  softly  to  himself  as  he 
touched  this  treasured  letter  with  his  lips,  "  in  death  maybe  they  are 
united. " 

The  paper  on  which  it  was  written  had  grown  brown  and  old,  but  at 
Bathurst,  down  by  the  village  church,  stood  a  white  cross  that,  despite  the 
wind  and  rain,  was  never  discolored,  and  at  its  base  a  mass  of  flowers  was 
strewn  fresh  and  fragrant  by  loving  hands  every  day. 

The  inscription  on  the  cross  was  short: 

To  ULRICA,  OITR  BELOVED, 

Aged  19. 
A  very  Angel  on  Earth. 

THE  END. 


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HER  FATAL  SIN,  «  • 

THE  TRAGEDY  OP  BEDMOTJNT,  "  " 


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BY  FRED.  E.  BENNETT, 

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of  the  celebrated  and  mysterious  Endowment  House  are  herein  unfolded, 
and  the  manners,  customs  and  life  of  this  peculiar  people  are  told  with 
candor  and  truth.  The  graphic  descriptions  of  the  great  West  is  of  itself 
valuable  to  tourists  and  home-seekers.  The  reader  may  say,  in  all  due 
sincerity,  that  "  Truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,"  when  reading  the  stirring 
incidents  and  almost  incredible  accounts  of  the  mormons,  but  Mr.  Bennett 
has  simply  thrown  the  clear  light  of  investigation  on  this  "  dark  stain  on 
our  country's  escutcheon,"  and  placed  it  before  the  public  in  a  most  fas- 
cinating manner. 

Fruited  in  large  type  on  good  paper,  fully  illustrated,  and  elegantly 
bound  in  extra  cloth,  with  ink  and  gold  side  and  back  stamps, 

PRICE  $1.50. 

We  want  agents  to  handle  this  book,  to  whom  we  offer  most  liberal 
terms. 

For  sale  on  all  railroads  and  at  all  book  stores,  or  will  be  sent  by  mail 
postpaid  on  receipt  of  price. 

EKIRD  *  nee,  p«rf>UBb«r». 

COR.  CLARK  AND  ADAMS  STS.  CHICAGO. 


THE  FRANK  PINKERTON 


ISSUED  MONTHLY—  BY  SUBSCRIPTION. 
$3.00   PER   ANNUM. 

Numbers  now  ready: 

DYKE  BARREL,  The  Railroad  Detective. 

A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE. 

$5,000  REWARD. 

JIM  CUM  MINGS,  or  the  Great  Adams  Express  Robbery. 

MARKED  FOR  LIFE. 


In  issuing  these  detective  novels,  the  publishers  have  been  careful  to 
put  out  the  best  of  the  kind.  Every  book  is  a  complete  exposition  of 
some  real  crime,  which  has  been  traced  to  the  guilty  person  or  conspira- 
tors by  some  eminent  operative  in  the  secret  service.  These  stories,  hav- 
ing facts  for  a  foundation,  are  written  in  a  fascinatimg  manner,  free  from 
all  improbabilities  or  mythical  romances,  but  tell  the  methods,  finesse  of 
detective  work,  the  hair-breadth  escapes,  the  perilous  situations,  failures  and 
triumphs,  in  readable  and  intensely  interesting  style. 

Every  day  crime  comes  to  light  which  proves  that  facts  are  stranger 
than  fiction,  and  which  rival,  in  the  intricacies  of  plots  and  counter-plots, 
the  ingenious  romances  whifeh  a  Dumas  placed  in  literature.  Selecting 
the  most  daring,  boldest  and  audacious  of  these  every-day  criminal  occur- 
rences, Mr.  Pinkerton  has  placed  them  before  the  reader  in  all  their 
reality,  in  a  most  attractive  form,  telling  the  story  with  all  the  dash  and 
abandon  of  one  who  is  relating  that  which  actuall  occurred,  but  clothing 
it  in  vivid  language,  bold  conception,  and  life-like  realism. 

The  books  will  be  found  to  abound  in  thrilling  situations,  unexpected 
disclosures  and  dramatic  conceptions,  and  are  copiously  illustrated,  making 
the  series  one  of  the  most  popular  ever  published. 

Subscriptions  may  begin  at  any  time.  Single  copies  sent  by  mail, 
postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price. 


.  LAIRD  &,  LEE,  Publishers, 
COR.  CLARK  AND  ADAMS  STS..     •     CHICAGO,  ILL. 


Nana's  Daughter, 

A  STORY  OF  PARISIAN  LIFE. 

—BY- 
ALFRED  SIRVEN  AND  HENRI  LEVERDIER, 

With  a  letter  from  the  authors  to  M.  Emile  Zola. 
TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  25th.  FRENCH  EDITION. 


When  M.  Emile  Zola  wrote  "  Nana,"  the  world  thought  that  no  truer 
photograph  of  the  kaleidoscopic  life  which  is  so  truly  and  essentially 
Parisian  could  be  brought  out  by  any  other  author.  It  remained  for 
Alfred  Sirven  and  Henri  Leverdier  to  combine  French  wit,  ingenuity  and 
realistic  word-painting  to  disapprove  this  opinion. 

"  NANA'S  DAUGHTER,"  by  these  gentlemen,  faithfully  portrays,  with 
graphic  lights  and  shadows,  that  zone  of  Parisian  life  from  which  the  beau 
m*>nde  gathers  all  that  is  chic,  Frenchy  and  worldly. 

The  character  of  Nana"  •  daughter,  in  vivid  contrast  to  her  mother, 
that  queen  of  the  demi-monde,  shines  like  a  pure  crystal  amid  the  sordid 
surroundings  and  demoniacal  plots  which  at  times  almost  engulphed  her, 
and,  irredescent  to  the  last,  remains  untarnished  and  spotless,  a  tribute  to 
virtue. 

The  book  maintains  its  thrilling  interest  to  the  very  end.  The  charac- 
ters are  skillfully  sketched,  and  the  plot  most  interestingly  complicated. 


FOR  SALE  ON  ALL  TRAINS,  AND  BY  ALL  BOOKSELLERS. 

Sent  by  mail  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price. 

LAIRD  &  LEE,  Publishers, 

CHICAGO. 


THE  BEST  POULTRY  BOOK  *  EVER  PUBLISHED, 


POULTRY  CULTURE. 

How  to  Raise,  Mate,  Manage  and  Judge  Thorough-bred  Fowls. 

By  I.  K.  FELCH. 

Third  Edition,  with  supplemental  chapter  on  the  preparation  of 
poultry  for  exhibition. 


EVERY  POULTRY  RAISER  should  have  this  book.  It  contains 
the  ripest  results  of  thirty  years'  experience  and  observation.  What  this 
book  does  not  tell  about  the  culture  of  chickens,  turkeys,  ducks  and  geese 
is  not  worth  knowing.  It  is  the  only  recognized  authority.  on  mating  and 
judging  thoroughbred  fowls.  The  book  contains  438  pages  and  50  illus- 
trations, beautifully  bound  in  cloth,  black,  silver  and  gold.  It  makes  an 
elegant  book  for  any  library.  Read  the  following,  among  the  many 
opinions  of  the  press. 

Mr.  Felch  has  been  a  well-known  and  recognized  authority  on  poultry 
for  many  years,  and  this  book  will  add  to  his  reputation.  It  is  the  best 
book  ever  published  on  the  subject  it  treats  upon,  and  should  be  in  the 
hands  of  all  who  wish  to  keep  fully  up  to  the  times  in  poultry  raising.  — 
American  Poultry  Journal,  Chicago. 

Mr.  Felch  deals  with  the  matter-of-fact,  every-day  experience  in  the 
poultry-yard  and  in  the  show-room.  From  introduction  to  end,  every 
page  of  this  book  has  some  practical  and  useful  information  for  novice, 
amateur  and  veteran.  We  consider  "  Poultry  Culture  "  the  best  work  on 
the  subject  ever  issued  .from  the  American  press.  —  National  Poultry  Moni- 
tor ,  Springfield,  Ohio. 

It  seems  to  be  prepared  with  a  view  to  thorough  practical  use  and  to  be 
of  very  great  value  to  all  who  engage,  whether  largely  or  only  in  a  small 
way,  in  poultry  culture.  —  Chicago  Daily  Times. 

It  is  an  ably  written  aud  handsomely  issued  volume,  just  arrived  from 
America,  and  its  title,  comprehensive  though  it  appears,  hardly  expresses 
the  great  scope  of  matter  dealt  with  by  the  author.  The  work  will  help 
anyone  wishing  to  keep  fowls  to  do  so  in  an  economic  manner.  —  Morn- 
ing Post,  London,  Eng. 

It  is  from  the  pen  of  one  of  the  most  successful  and  experienced  poultry- 
men  in  the  country.  It  has  no  superior  in  its  class,  and  is  complete,  trust- 
worthy, perspicuous  and  practical.  —  The  Independent,  New  York. 

The  whole  book  has  an  er>mently  practical  and  sensible  tone,  and  we 
think  it  will  be  found  a  safe  counselor.  —  Cultivator  and  Country  Gentle- 
man, Albany,  N.  Y. 


BENT  POSTPAID  ON   RECEIPT  OF  PRICE.          LAIRD    &    LEE,    PUBLISHERS, 

LAKESIDE  BUILDING,         CHICAGO,  ILL. 


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